The Lion and the Wolf
by Bl4ckSun
Summary: What would happen if, instead of Tyrion, Sansa Stark is wed to the other brother? If she can win him, can Sansa use Jaime Lannister to influence his own family? Or, better, will he keep his oath and take her home? Jaime L./Sansa S.
1. The Arrangement

Disclaimer: I do not own the Song of Ice and Fire series. I did pull a few paragraphs from it for the beginning of this story though, just so any readers can understand where I'm beginning this from in the book (it's Tyrion's chapter in 'A Storm of Swords,' where Lord Tywin is supposed to tell him he's marrying Sansa. I'm giving this different circumstances though!)

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><p>"I object to marrying <em>any-" <em>fumed Cersei, outraged, before being cut off by her father.

"I have considered the Redwyne twins, Theon Greyjoy, Quentyn Martell, and a number of others. But our alliance with Highgarden was the sword that broke Stannis. It should be tempered and made stronger. Ser Loras has taken the white and Ser Garlan has wed to one of the Fossoways, but there remains the eldest son, the boy they scheme to wed to Sansa Stark."

_Willas Tyrell._ Tyrion was taking a wicked pleasure in Cersei's helpless fury. "That would be the cripple," he said.

Their father chilled him with a look. "Willas is heir to Highgarden, and by all reports a mild and courtly young man, fond of reading books and looking at the stars. He has a passion for breeding animals as well, and owns the finest hounds, hawks, and horses in the Seven Kingdoms."

_A perfect match, _mused Tyrion_. _Cersei also has a passion for breeding.__ He pitied poor Willas Tyrell, and did not know whether he wanted to laugh at his sister or weep for her.

"The Tyrell heir will be my choice," Lord Tywin concluded. Cersei waited for more, but nothing was given to her. She drew herself up in all her queenly fury.

"That is so very kind of you father," she said icily, "I shall need a few days to consider. Do I have your leave to go?"

"No," said Lord Tywin sharply. "There is another matter I must address with the two of you, should Lord Tyrell bring up his scheme with Willas and the Stark girl. We've sealed off one end of the plan; Lord Tyrell should be happy enough with the exchange of a deceased lord's daughter for a queen. But this situation has brought my attention that Sansa Stark is of marrying age, and as an heiress is going to be highly desired."

"She is no heiress yet," pointed out Tyrion. Cersei sulked silently in the background, attentive all the same. "Her brother Robb still lives, in case you hadn't noticed."

"And is wed to that Jeyne Westerling, breaking his oath to the Freys," said Lord Tywin with a wicked glint in his eyes. "War is a nasty thing, and takes its price in lords and peasants alike. If the bloody battles don't get him, I'm sure the good Lord Frey will have something to say about it."

"Jeyne Westerling?" gasped Tyrion and Cersei simultaneously. Cersei had lost her interest in sulking and was quite engrossed. "Well Father, if she has any children, then our little heiress will be nothing at all."

"I'm sure, under the worst circumstances, someone can take care of such a problem," said Lord Tywin darkly. They both nodded; it wasn't exactly uncommon for the Lannisters to claw down anyone in the way of opportunity. "But in order to do so, we need a man of ours at Winterfell when the time comes; a man in place and ready to step up to the position of Lord Protector."

_No,_ thought Tyrion to himself._ _No, please no. Not me. My Shae…__

"Immediately upon his return, Jaime is to wed the Stark girl."

Cersei and Tyrion stared at him, shocked, for a full five seconds before Cersei exploded.

"Are you _mad?" _she snarled, her green eyes glowing with the heat of her anger. "He is your son, fighting for your own line, and you're going to gift him with a whelp of a bride when he comes back? Marry her to one of our cousins, we've got those aplenty! For god's sake, marry her to Tyrion! He could certainly use a bride!"

"I don't gift my son with merely a very young bride; I gift him with the castles and lands of Winterfell. And we need someone we can entirely trust to be on our side up there. Jaime would never betray his own blood, and should the time come he is strong enough to handle Robb Stark. Tyrion is too cunning for sorts. We need him here where we both need him for strategy, and can keep an eye on him."

"Standing right here, but thank you father. I'll accept a few harsh words in place of the loss of my celibacy." Tyrion's father and sister shot him scathing looks, but he couldn't care less. They were right, after all. But he had an important point to make to Cersei, to hammer in the point that he should not marry Sansa Stark. "Cersei is correct though, father. Why give such a very young bride to Jaime? There is no way he will be attracted to her, his eyes will always stray to older, perhaps more developed women."

And with a subtle elbowing, the dwarf immediately woke Cersei's cunning. She would have kissed him had Lord Tywin been absent. If Jaime married the Stark girl, not only would he be neglectful of his shy young bride, but he would be wedded for life, with no threat of more attractive prospects to draw his attention from Cersei.

Her heated passion for their brother had clouded her sense, but she saw it now.

"Yes, Tyrion, but if he has a litter on the Stark girl, and I am wed to Willas, then all of these nasty rumors about Jaime and I will dissipate entirely! Joffrey's claim to the throne will go unchallenged! But wait...father, what of Jaime's white cloak? As a member of the Kingsguard, he is not allowed to marry or hold land!"

"Another good point, but one that is thrown down easily enough. It is a simple matter of being released by the king. The singers shall love him for this, the king's kindness in allowing a member of his guard to leave him for love," said Lord Tywin, united with his daughter against Tyrion yet again. But Tyrion welcomed this. It was a feigned fight that would put him exactly where he wanted; back in Shae's bed. He bowed mockingly.

"Alas, I have been outnumbered. By all means, marry our dear Jaime to the she-wolf." He stood back to watch the planning commence.

"Now, tonight at dinner, we should announce the betrothal," mused Lord Tywin. "You'll have to warn the Stark girl beforehand, Cersei, so she looks appropriately dressed. Also, she should not cause a scene about it. It's a great honor, to wed to firstborn Lannister son."

"We need to announce it before Lord Tyrell suggests he whisk Sansa off to Highgarden, anyways," said Cersei.

"Wait, what of Casterly Rock?" asked Tyrion suddenly. Jaime, as the eldest son, was the rightful heir to the seat of Casterly. With Cersei as the queen, and Jaime the Lord Protector of Winterfell, there was no one to rule Casterly except…

"Don't be foolish, Tyrion," laughed Lord Tywin. "I am not going to die anytime soon. But once this war is done and Jaime is saddled with Winterfell, we will find the younger sister. You shall wed her, and Jaime will bow out, allowing you and your wolf to hold Winterfell. He shall bring the Stark girl back with him to Casterly Rock, where he shall sit as a lord."

"Pretty, this little plan of yours," spat Tyrion angrily. "Sansa Stark is too young for me already, now you'll throw me the even smaller sister?"

"Young for you, and young for Jaime, but they will do all the same. You can have all the whores you want on the side, but these wives you'll take for their claims.

"But that's two claims to Winterfell," argued Tyrion uselessly. "Why not marry me to another realm, you know, broaden your alliances?"

"I prefer strong claims to many claims, Tyrion," said Lord Tywin coldly. "Cersei and Joffrey will both marry into Highgarden. The Freys have already invested in our cousins, and will surely settle for them once they've reaped their revenge on the oath-breaking wolf boy. You and Jaime shall both hold a claim to Winterfell. You see, should we not be able to find the younger Stark girl, then we can figure something else out. I am not dying anytime soon, and perhaps we can wed Myrcella to one of the younger boys. We will have the time to figure such things out after we've staked our claim."

"I see," sneered Tyrion, "Gods forbid I hold a castle." He turned and began to waddle from the room. "Don't worry father, I am neither bitter nor vengeful. We all know how little ruling has ever appealed to me."

"Tyrion, when we find the younger girl, you shall hold a castle," threw back Cersei. "Like it or not."

"Cersei, will you tell her before supper? Personally?" asked Lord Tywin of his only daughter. Cersei laughed and tossed her bright golden hair back over her shoulder.

"Of course, father. Who wouldn't be honored to marry the Kingslayer, greatest knight in the Kingdom?"


	2. The Announcement

Every chapter I write will be a little longer than the last, I hope! That's how they usually go anyways. Here's chapter two! Please R&R!

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><p>Sansa sat in front of her mirror, brushing her long auburn hair. She couldn't help the small leaps of joy her heart was beating as she imagined her new life in Highgarden, living amongst the flowers and hawking with her new husband Willas. And when Robb won the war and came to get her, she would be waiting safely for him in the arms of her kind and handsome lord.<p>

She knew that she shouldn't get her hopes up about Willas, but it was the only thing keeping her sane in this place, surrounded by Lannisters. Her big, blue, empty eyes stared back at her from the mirror, mocking her with the girlish dreams that had been crushed that day on the stone steps, when Prince Joffrey had chopped off her father's head and broken his promises. She had hoped then that Joffrey would be good and gentle; she hoped now the same about her betrothed.

She rested the brush in her hand and stared into the mirror, at the wan and frightened girl sitting there. The girl was lovely enough; Sansa had always been proud of her rich red-brown hair, her long eyelashes, her shell-pink mouth. But her expression was one of desperation, despite how she tried to hope. All of the color had drained from her face until she had been left pale and drained. She reached for the skin powders when suddenly her door opened.

Sansa leapt to her feet, her heart choking her. She knew for one awful second that it was Joffrey, come to her at last to force himself on her before he wed his queen Margaery. She was hardly dressed; a simple cream slip embroidered with seed pearls was all that protected her.

But then the queen walked into her room, beautiful, proud, and terrible. Sanse rose to her feet and curtseyed perfectly, as she'd been taught.

"Your Grace," she murmured, her eyes low. She couldn't bear to look at this woman who had taken her family from her and fooled her into captivity. But today the queen smiled, her beauty radiating across the room. She was cloaked in light green, her sleeves long and sweeping and her golden hair piled intricately on top of her head. It brought out the rich green of her Lannister eyes.

"Sansa, dear Sansa, rise," she said in a musical voice. Sansa stood, self-conscious in her plain slip. But the queen moved swiftly to her and put her hands on her shoulders. Sansa was surprised to find that she was nearly as tall as her; they were a mere three or so inches apart in height. "I have the most wonderful news for you, sweet girl."

"I...I am eager to hear, your Grace," said Sansa meekly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Had Cersei heard of her betrothal to Willas? Did she think she was breaking it to her now, that Sansa didn't already know? She could not imagine what the queen meant to tell her that she did not already know. Margaery's grandmother had quite indulged Sansa in the going-ons of court, things she should never have known.

"My dear, you are to be wed," said Cersei triumphantly, her green eyes joyful and angry at the same time. Sansa made herself smile and laugh, though she hated to do so for this wicked woman.

"Oh, I had thought it to be such!" she giggled despite herself. Catching her slip, she blushed and curtseyed again. It would not do to reveal that she was getting information from Margaery. "After my flowering, that is, my queen. I knew that I was soon to be wed." The queen gave her an odd look, but seemed to dismiss any suspicions. Cersei smiled easily, but Sansa wasn't fooled by the queen's shows anymore. She knew better than that.

"Then, dear Sansa, I welcome you into my family!" she exclaimed, drawing the young girl into her richly clad arms. Sansa stiffened in Cersei's grasp, a motion that didn't go unnoticed to the queen. "You'll be the loveliest little sister, I'm sure, so beautiful and courtly..."

"Sister?" gasped Sansa, wrenching herself back and from the queen's arms. "Your-your family?" It would have been bad enough to have some lion cousin thrust upon her, but to be queen Cersei's sister meant that it was one of two men she knew; either Jaime Lannister, the hot-tempered oathbreaker who warred with her brother, or Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf. Sansa wasn't sure which one was worse. "Oh, please, don't, please-"

"Now stop that, it's quite unseemly," said Queen Regent Cersei harshly. "You should be honored, to be wed to the heir to Casterly Rock. It's something many a girl has dreamed of, to be sure. You're going to be announced tonight at supper, by King Joffrey himself no less. It's more than the daughter of a traitor can ask for, so you had better be gracious about it."

"He's...he's so much older than me!" she squeaked, trying not to cry. Cersei scoffed and waved her hand, all formalities and courtesies gone from her manner.

"He's much younger than Jon Arryn was when he wed your aunt Lysa Tully. She had to have been your age, and he near his deathbed. Greater distances in age have been breached, yours will be no worse than theirs. Ser Jaime is still young, stop being naive."

Sansa bowed her head, her long hair hiding her tears as she grieved for the escape she had so hoped for through Willas. She had to be brave, though. As a captive, and as a Stark of Winterfell, she would be brave no matter what they threw at her. When she raised her head, the tears were gone and she was as cold and hard as the stones of her ice castle. Cersei had waited patiently for her reply, and she too seemed to resonate a chill from deep in her heart. Sansa felt that, for the first time, she and Cersei shared the bitterness of the same cup.

"What shall I wear for supper, then?"

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><p>Everything flew through Sansa's head as she dressed herself. Jaime Lannister wasn't even here, the last she had heard was of his escape from her mother and brother, Lady Catelyn Stark and Robb. On top of that, he wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, which meant that he wasn't to wed or hold lands.<p>

Also, she couldn't be sure that Joffrey would even listen to his mother. He certainly had defied her before, and his perverse grasp on Sansa was one that he cherished dearly.

Every thought that stumbled through her shocked brain was one that she welcomed with another burst of hope that glimmered weakly from deep inside her. But, regardless of what happened, she would be a Stark of Winterfell. Though she might marry one, she would never be a Lannister.

The thought strengthened her, made her cold. The dress she chose was charcoal grey of body, laced with dazzling silver from the Myrish isles. It bared her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, and long, delicate grey gloves covered her hands. Buttons of mother-of-pearl lined the sides of the dress, and matched her necklace. Cloaked in white and grey, the colors of Winterfell, she looked all the more a princess of the North, very fitting for her announcement.

Seeing herself in the mirror reminded her of her mother, who she hadn't seen in what seemed like years. Her eyes would have burned, but the strength of the wolf ran through her. She pinned back her hair with a mother-of-pearl pin shaped like the snarling face of a direwolf.

"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she told her reflection in the long glass. "I can be brave."

Her reflection did not respond to that. It showed a scared girl in an enormous, lavishly decorated room. But she felt better saying the words out loud.

A knock came on the door, and it was Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard who waited to escort her to the supper. Sansa blushed and took the arm that he offered.

"Ser Loras, you look so handsome," she burst, unable to help it when she saw how his white cloak fell gracefully over his silver armor. He smiled graciously, taking her breath away. His eyes were so deep and lovely, she could not look away.

"You're too kind, Lady Sansa," he said quietly, gently. "But I fear all eyes will be on you tonight. Your loveliness surpasses all."

If, somehow, the Lannisters were freeing Ser Jaime from the Kingsguard to wed her, why then couldn't they do them same for Loras? Sansa wished with all of her heart that it was Ser Loras who was being released from his vows, who would wed her in the fragrant castle of Highgarden with an adoring crowd and her brother to hand over his protection. For the few minutes of her walk with him, she pretended that it was.

But then it was over and they were in the courtyard, with the Tyrells and the Redwynes and the Lannisters and all their wards all around. The air was cool, but great burning pits roasted all manner of birds and game, and bursts of laugher serenaded through the castle. It was a beautiful, courtly scene, but one that Sansa regarded with dread. Ser Loras patted her hand before releasing her to the announcer.

"The Lady Sansa of House Stark," called the announcer loudly, and she was welcomed by a smattering of calls and greetings. She saw Margaery gesture to her, and despite the fact that the young betrothed was seated next to Joffrey, Sansa approached her and curtseyed. She felt that Joffrey would behave himself in front of his bride to be.

"Sansa, it's tonight," whispered Margaery in her ear so softly that Sansa hardly heard her. "Father will announce your offer tonight!" Sansa felt her heart drop.

"Margaery, I-"

"It's good to see my ladies conversing as such," said Joffrey loudly, and Sansa quickly shut her mouth. "I am glad to see the two of you friends." Margaery laughed and said something witty, but Sansa was just relieved that he was playing gallant. At the same time, her nerves tingled unpleasantly. Now it was simply a matter of who would speak first.

The first course was served, a creamy soup of crab legs and soft leeks. Sansa sipped at it, her appetite all but gone, while Margaery, Joffrey, and her cousins all chatted about the fine weather.

"Oh, Lady Sansa, your dress is so beautiful!" exclaimed Margaery lovingly, touching the mother-of-pearl buttons. "Megga has one sort of like this, but in red, you should see it! And the buttons are all bright green, oh when she wears it at the tourneys it's so lovely, you really need to see!"

Sansa could only nod and chew at a leek as she waited to hear her fate.

Lord Tywin Lannister was there, seated with Lord Tyrell. Cersei sat between her father and Margaery's grandmother, but she seemed sullen and reserved, preferring the company of her spiced wine to that of those around her.

But, suddenly, she rose and walked towards them from behind the guests. Few noticed her movement, and she stopped to whisper something into Joff's ear. Sansa's skin prickled all over. Here, it was here where her claim to Winterfell would be lost. But Cersei straightened and walked away, exiting the courtyard as silently as a snake. And still Joffrey said nothing, instead feeding Margaery a bite of sliced peach with the tip of his knife.

The mumbling of the guests were white noise to her, she couldn't make sense of their words. Her breath was heavy in her mouth, and she realized that she had been holding it.

"Sansa, is something wrong?" whispered Margaery's cousin, Megga, at Sansa's left. The cool breeze ruffled at their hair, and the smoky smell of the roasted boar drifted across the table. Sansa took a deep breath and managed a smile. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly somebody stood. Sansa looked up to see Lord Tyrell rising from his chair.

Her heart stopped, and her breath returned for a brief moment of disbelief and hope.

"My Lord Tyrell, I'm sure they'll bring the boar to you. Please, don't bother yourself for it," said Joffrey suddenly and loudly. He smiled at the lord brightly until Lord Tyrell had no choice but to seat himself again. Joffrey stood, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture. _Gods, no..._

"Lord and ladies of the court!" he burst, as pleased as ever to hold the entire court's attention. "I have a grand announcement to make! I am so very glad to tell you all that my lovely Sansa won't be alone for very much longer!"

Margaery looked at Sansa in alarm, but Sansa couldn't meet her eyes. She couldn't do anything but breathe and focus on not running away at this moment.

"For when my dearest uncle Ser Jaime returns, because of his undying devotion to the throne and his valor in battle, he is to be allowed hearth and home, releasing him from his vows as a member of the Kingsguard! And our sweet lady Sansa has offered him her own!"

Sansa blushed harder than ever as every member of the Tyrell family froze for half a second before clapping politely. Margaery stared at her in open shock, but Sansa couldn't bring herself to meet her eyes. Did Joffrey _have_ to phrase it that way? She felt ashamed, felt that everyone must think her wanton, to offer herself to a knight in that way. But Cersei had threatened her with certain punishment if she humiliated her son or brother in any way, and so it was all she could do to smile and look pleased.

"I am glad to welcome her into my family, perhaps not as a wife, but a Lannister nonetheless!" And as he finished, as was proper, Sansa stood to allow him to embrace her. He did so chastely enough, but she could not help the words that slithered from his mouth. "And when my uncle is busy with other things, I'll make _sure_ you have some Lannister kittens."

Sansa could have cried, but she stayed frozen until he withdrew and she could take her seat again. The court picked up the talk again at once, this time congratulating both Sansa and the Lannisters on the worthy pairing.

"Oh, I wonder what color the babies will be?" gushed a lady of one of the lower houses, perhaps a bannerman line. "Red hair or gold? Blue eyes or green?"

"They'll be lovely, no doubt!"

"Oh an autumn wedding, how _wonderful_!"

"Sansa Lannister...that's a pretty name, there! Better than Sansa Baratheon, if you ask me!"

"I had wondered when Ser Jaime would settle down with a wife, I always knew the Kingsguard wasn't enough for him."

"Will they live at Winterfell, then?"

"They can stay in the Palace for a while, at least."

Sansa endured the comments of the court for as long as she could. It was something she might have enjoyed, if she were in Winterfell and marrying a handsome, young, high-bred knight that her father had chosen for her. Someone good and kind, someone who would treat her well...someone that she loved. But Lannisters were all the same; never had she been treated well by any of them. And she could not love a Lannister.


	3. Waiting

Disclaimer is in the beginning.

I'm trying to nail the time stretch as evenly as possible, but please understand that this isn't going to be exactly on par with the book's time. Sorry, but Robb is still alive right now, as well as Joffrey and several others. Some of the events haven't happened, some of them had. Just...try to focus more on the storyline than this fanfic's minor details please?

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><p>Sansa sat in her room, plucking at the strings of a lute that had been left in her room. It was quite old, its wood worn and faded from what must have been a rich dark cherry. The strings were stiff at first, but with a little playing, they had warmed quickly to her fingers.<p>

She remembered her evenings in Winterfell, where sometimes her mother would sit in her room and teach her to play a lute.

It had been different then. She had hated the thing, thrown it, tried to worm out of playing it. But her mother had charmed her with fairy tales and songs, and she begrudgingly learned a few short tunes. She'd always preferred to listen to music, rather than play it herself. But now she plucked at the cherry wood lute, wishing she could have her mother now, wishing they could play together in her darkest evenings.

_Perhaps Jaime Lannister could play for her._

Choking back a sob, she threw the lute. It crashed into the other side of the room, disappearing in the scarlet curtains that fanned out from her enormous window. "Shut up!" she screamed at her own head, tangling her hands in her red locks. Her own dreams mocked her, resounded in her head, reminding her of the hopes and fantasies that had once pranced through her childish mind.

_Here I am, marrying a great knight_, she thought to herself. _He's highborn and handsome and golden. I'm getting everything I wanted, aren't I? Who cares if he's a murderer, if he won't care for you, if he's the uncle of a monstrous king. He's just like the stories describe, isn't he._

Her father's face drifted through her mind again, and a few more tears burned her eyes. _No. I'm getting everything I deserved._

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Sansa sighed. It was past time for her bath to be run, and she had been waiting on her maids for nearly twenty minutes. "Alice, Jocelyn, have you finished-"

Prince Joffrey stood before her, resplendent in a black vest and a green tunic with billowing sleeves. His hair was handsomely tossed, but the expression in his narrow green eyes frightened her. She stood immediately, resisting the urge to flee. There was nowhere she could go, anyways; he stood between her and the only door out.

"Were you pleased with my announcement of your betrothal, Lady Sansa?" drawled the young man easily, taking a smooth step into the room. She again fought her own urge to step backwards. "I was sad, you know. We could have been like in the songs; the married king and his lady lover. I could have come to see you when my queen was asleep, kept you warm at night and return to my wife in the morning."

"I...I am honored, your Grace," she made herself say. "Both to hold your affection and to be betrothed to your gallant uncle." Joffrey seemed disappointed with her response; no longer was he pleased when she found the right thing to say, rather upset that he could not hound her for mistakes.

"It's too bad he didn't kill your brother in the last fight," said Joffrey forcefully, "because then he could have shamed the wolf boy both on the battlefield and in bed. I wonder how Robb Stark feels, that though he's bested my uncle in battle, Ser Jaime will still be fucking the wolf's sister once he returns."

"That's a horrible thing to say," gasped Sansa, tears stinging at her eyes. She tried not to cry, truly she did, and yet his words were a slap in the face of her family and her honor. She wanted terribly to call him a monster and tell him how much she wished her mother had cut Ser Jaime's throat when she had him, but that would be treason to side with her family, and her head would end up cut off and stuck on the wall beside her father's. So she swallowed her angry words and bowed her head and said nothing.

Joffrey sighed. "You're awfully boring tonight," he said, after realizing that he was unable to pull a reaction out of her. But when he began to move quickly towards her, Sansa stumbled backwards. "I'm sure my uncle won't enjoy a maiden. The servants say he's experienced in that sort of thing. Perhaps he'll want you to be, too."

"Your Grace!" squeaked Sansa, ashamed when her voice came out cracked and frightened. "Your Grace, I don't -I mean- please, Joffrey!"

"My love!" cried another voice from across the room. It was light and musical, and Sansa could have cried. Margaery stood there, lovely in green and golden silks. "Oh, what a pleasant surprise! I'd just come to whisk Sansa away with me for a little walk in the moonlight of the courtyards!"

"Margaery," said Joffrey, the noble king once again. He turned from Sansa and embraced his slender bride-to-be. "How good of you. I would be delighted to accompany you both." Sansa met Margaery's eyes for a fraction of a moment before the young girl laughed prettily. _How does one turn down a king_?

"Oh my handsome Joff, but what would Sansa and I speak of if not our betrothed? Sire, we women would prefer to confide privately about the men we love," she said gracefully, brushing his cheek with her soft fingers. It was extremely well-done; Joffrey looked at once flattered, confused, and lustful. In that light, she took Sansa's hand, and the two women skipped away.

Once in the courtyard, Sansa turned her desperate eyes on the young rising queen. "Margaery, help me," she pleaded, caring little for anyone dropping eaves. Margaery looked more concerned about that though, subtly checking for anyone around. "Please, you have to take me away from here! I can't bear it anymore, I just can't!" The older girl held out her arms, and Sansa allowed herself to scoot close and rest her head on Margaery's shoulder.

"Sansa, it's done," whispered Margaery, holding the young girl close. "We can't, it's done. Lord Tywin proposed a match between Willis and Queen Cersei, and my family cannot turn that down! It would be a most horrific insult, to reject the queen regent!"

"I...I...isn't there anybody else?" she begged, clutching the soft gold fabric of Margaery's sleeves. "Anyone, a cousin, a half-cousin, a nephew...there isn't anyone else?" The Tyrell family was large, like the Lannisters, and there simply _had_ to be someone she could escape with!

"I'm afraid that's not the point," whispered Margaery, ever watchful for people walking by. So far, the courtyard had been silent and abandoned, most of the guests preparing for sleep. "You see, the betrothal is set! We have nothing to offer them for you, the price on your claim is far too expensive. Winterfell is the bargain, not you, and we simply can't afford to haggle it from the Lannisters!"

"Winterfell? But my brother Robb is the heir to Winterfell," she gasped quietly. "I have no claim!"

"This is war, Sansa," murmured Margaery even more softly than before. "They anticipate his death already, and are preparing someone to rule as Lord Protector over your land."

"Jaime Lannister," Sansa breathed, horrified. "But he's cruel and bloodthirsty, he's a war monger! The Northmen won't accept him either, they won't follow him!"

"Perhaps not, but they'll accept and follow _you_," said Margaery pointedly. "And a wife belongs to her husband. They only need you as a figurehead, to wait until your brother is dead."

"Then help me escape!" she hissed, her eyes deep and blue and frightened. "I can't let this happen, I can't let the Lannisters have Winterfell, too! I already let them have my family, didn't I?" her voice grew more shrill with every word. Margaery touched her lips with a finger and hushed her warningly. Sansa let the hysteria slip from her, composing herself again. Margaery waited until Sansa seemed in control to remove her hand from the other girl's mouth.

"By all means, dearest, try to escape, but the Tyrells _cannot_ be connected to it. If the Lannisters even suspect that we attempted to undermine their plans, then everything will be off for us! We could lose everything, and frankly it's not worth it." Sansa gaped at her, open mouthed, but Margaery's expression softened and she sighed. "Oh, Sansa, when I'm truly queen and Cersei is sent away to Highgarden with Willas, I will take care of this. I'll bring you back, I promise, and we'll fix this."

"You...you promise?" sniffed Sansa, sitting up. Margaery's eyes were gentle and sorrowful, the same shade of brown as her brother Loras's.

"I promise."

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><p>Sansa spent as much time as possible with Margaery over the course of the next few weeks. Unfortunately, Margaery's royal wedding had been delayed because the roses to be sent from Highgarden were struck with disease, and so they had to grow entire new batches to swath the wedding in fragrance.<p>

She took comfort from Margaery and her cousins, and it was easy to pretend that she was a Tyrell, nimble and free and still hopeful for the future. They certainly welcomed her into their fold, and she spend many a moment giggling and gossiping and riding with them.

She wished she could put spur to her horse and ride away, but the Kingsguard accompanied their rides all the time, especially when Joffrey joined them. Luckily for Sansa, when Joffrey was around Margaery, he was the picture of chivalry. No doubt advised against angering the Tyrells, Joffrey treated Margaery as gently as one handled a kitten. Sansa could have been jealous, but she knew better. She was glad that his hand fell to Margaery instead of to her; she hoped dearly that Joffrey would never touch her again.

In fact, over time, she forgot that she was betrothed. She forgot about her husband-to-be, and hoped against all hope that he would be captured again and never set free, so she would remain a maiden until she was returned to her brother. It was easy to imagine; in times of war, all sorts of things might happen to a man out there. And so, her flicker of hope burned deep and secretly inside of her, until she forgot that she was betrothed.

Sansa began to smile again.

She had abandoned her large, empty room for residence in the Maidenvault with Margaery and the Tyrell cousins. It was a beautiful section of the palace, many rooms all connected to an enormous common room with a hearth and cushions and tables. Many a night she spent sitting merrily with the Tyrells, listening to music and making jokes.

A new singer had come to the Palace, and Margaery's ladies laid claim to him instantly, and he spent his days playing for them in the Maidenvault. He was young and handsome, exactly as Sansa had always dreamed of singers, with curly black hair falling to his shoulders and soft pink lips. His dark eyes lingered on Sansa as he played 'Three Maids Faire' and 'Lady Love,' and at the end of his songs he cut a lock of his hair with his knife and tied it around her little finger, making her promise to wear it always.

His name was Redrick, and Margaery's cousins often teased her about his clear preference for Winterfell over Highgarden. He would accompany them on rides and walks, and though he knew Sansa was betrothed he wrote new songs every day dedicated to her beauty. He called them the 'Ballads of Winter,' and some of them were quite bawdy. However, he never seemed to mean her harm, and was satisfied with mere tokens of her affection for him, such as candies or a wildflower she'd pluck for him as they walked.

He stayed with them for many days, and slowly but surely he wooed Sansa Stark.

One day they were all seated by the fire, listening to Redrick play on his harp and sing, when suddenly Sansa noticed that all of the other girls were asleep or had wandered off to the kitchens to snatch some tarts. Redrick was sitting quite close to her, strumming his harp gently in the dying embers of the fire.

"That was lovely," said Sansa honestly, wishing he would go on. "What was it called?" The young singer laughed and plucked a cord, his dark eyes humble and kind. Sansa's heart melted as they met hers.

"It's called 'The Lady and her Cat,' I made it myself. It has words, if you'd like to hear." She scooted closer to him and nodded, eager for his passionate, throaty voice to continue. He strummed the cords again and cleared his throat.

Sansa sat listening to his song about a great lady, whose pet cat was a ferocious beast. He sang about how it clung to her, and how it bit and hurt the lady, and how finally her hero threw it from her and made her see the scratches.

Long before he was done, she had figured out the characters. She was the cold lady of the song, and Jaime Lannister must have been the cat. But who was her hero?

"And pray tell, how does he dislodge the cat? It can't be so simple a matter," she teased, touching the harp gently. "If the cat is so great as he seems, anyhow."

"With song, of course," said the singer, grinning toothily at her. "Everyone knows that a beast can only be tamed with song."

"Am I a beast too, then? Since you've decidedly used your harp to draw close?" she asked him, wondering at her own daring. But the singer laughed, touching her cheek gently. His eyes were affectionate and filled with desire, but his touch was not the same lustful grasp as Joffrey's. She could have loved him then.

"Oh my lady, you are no beast. Your sigil might be a direwolf, but to protect its pretty ladies. I would never dare call you a wolf."

"But dare you must, because as pretty as I might be, I have always been a wolf."

"And too soon a lion..." he whispered sadly, his mouth twitching down at the corners. "My love, come away with me. You don't have to do this. Come with me, to the Vale. No one will find you there, we can marry and raise a brood of chicks."

"I...I..." she stuttered, blushing deeply. Her heart thudded in her chest, and had she been the same girl she was before she learned of treachery, she would have taken his offer in an instant. "I can't, Redrick, I can't escape. There are guards everywhere, they're always watching me!"

He leaned closer, ever closer, until her lips brushed his and she could taste the orange on his breath from their supper. It was a chaste kiss, and it didn't last long. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, and all over her face until tears pushed through her eyelashes. They were tears of longing, despair, and grief for the dreams that had died in her long ago. She sniffed but did not cry. She had grieved enough.

"Come away with me, we will go into the night and never look back. You don't have to be Sansa Stark of Winterfell or Sansa Lannister of the Iron Throne or Casterly Rock or wherever, you can be just Sansa. Sansa, the wife of Redrick Helhart. Sansa, the mother of the loveliest children on the earth. We'll have daughters who will sing like me, sons as fierce as your wolves. Come with me, Sansa, be my lady love."

He spoke words that she'd dreamed of since she was a child.

"Yes," she whispered into his hair as she clung to him. "I will come with you. Take me away, tonight, and I will come with you. But I want to go home, to Winterfell. Bring me to Winterfell and I will marry you."

Suddenly the door to the Maidenvault burst open, and there stood Alla Tyrell, one of Margaery's cousins, accompanied by two of the Kingsguard.

"He's back! Ser Jaime is back!"


	4. They Meet Again

Author's note: I'm making Sansa slightly older. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

* * *

><p>Sansa would not see him before they broke their fast the next morning.<p>

Her royal guard had nearly doubled in size, apparently for fear she would grow cold feet and attempt to flee. Since those had been exactly her plans, she was distraught and spent more time wringing her hands in her room than preparing to meet her betrothed.

Many rumors flew about the castle on his return, some more reliable than others. Sansa heard most of all about the loss of his right hand, something she genuinely pitied him for. The loss of a swordsman's right hand was the most terrible loss a man could endure, and few deserved that fate. But she supposed he deserved it, from the tales she'd heard about his battle.

She'd been tossed into her room and told to prepare to greet him the next morning, and left alone with half a dozen guards outside of her room. No one was there to comfort her or advise her, not even her own maids. She paced the room in fright, looking for any way out, but even the windows dropped half a hundred feet into the stone courtyards below.

_I am a wolf, _she told herself, _a brave wolf of Winterfell. _But she felt more and more a little girl as she sniffed and dropped beside her bed, shaking. Marriage arrangements were already being made, she could hear the orders being thrown to servants outside of her room. They were talking about ribbons, flowers, the food, the guests, the ceremony, the septon, everything except the cringing bride and her otherwise absent husband.

_Husband._

Sansa cried a little bit, then. Everything that happened to her was one more stab at her dreams, one more mockery of her childhood. Now more than ever she was a slave of the Lannisters, and the final nail in her coffin would be this marriage.

She hadn't even been able to say goodbye to Redrick before she'd been hauled away, or apologize for her helplessness. She could have been married to a young, handsome, courtly singer, had he been just a little earlier in his arrival.

"Stand aside, I am to be your _queen_!" exclaimed a strong young voice from the other side of the door. Sansa looked up, though she knew better than to hope. Margaery burst through the door, pink and breathless.

"Get up, Sansa, let's pick something for you to wear tomorrow morning." She threw open the closets, rummaging through the various gowns inside. "No...nothing blue, I fear. I'd say go with your colors again, I think that would be appropriate. But something light, for the morning."

"Margaery, you...I...where is he?" she asked in a low voice, not truly wanting to know. The young girl sighed through her nose before drawing out a slender, well-fitted grey dress with darker grey accents at the neck and hem. An ivory sash was tied to it, to be slung around the waist.

"He's with the Maesters, they're fixing his...well, what used to be his hand. Here, how about this, then?"

"So it's true then? His hand is gone?" she asked, taking the dress from Margaery and laying it on her bed.

"Yes, his hand is gone. Sansa...look, I know he's no Loras, and he's no Redrick, but for my sake, please try to be happy about this. Just pretend he's from the fairy tales, and pretend he loves you for now. I mean, just for now, while nothing has happened yet. I can't bear to see you so sad, so please try?" Margaery begged her, her large brown eyes wet with sadness for her friend. Sansa had stopped shaking, and tried hard to smile for Margaery. It couldn't have been a particularly pretty smile, but it was a start. Margaery beamed at her.

"Now...let's see what we can do with your hair."

* * *

><p>Sansa sat upright in her bed, her heart teeming with fear. Already preparations had been made for her wedding, already her dress was being chosen for her. She wished her brothers were there, and her mother and father, and even Arya. She wished for Jon. She wished for anyone who would stand up for her in the midst of all these lies, the tricks and deceit of the court.<p>

In the darkness, the light of the moon shone through her window. Ser Dontos was nowhere to be seen.

But suddenly, someone snored outside of her door, and Sansa froze. It came again, louder and more pronounced. It had been hours since midnight, but Sansa had been unable to sleep for fear of the following morning. Now she crept to the door, touching it gently. There was no sound except for heavy breathing.

Racing back to her wardrobe before she could even think, she yanked open a drawer and withdrew a small bag of gold dragons. She tucked it into a pocket of her nightslip, and that was all. Tying back her hair, she ran back to the door and listened again. The soft snoring continued, and she slowly pulled open the heavy door.

Three guards lay slumped and asleep against the walls, leaning on their spears or braced against the wall. She crept forward, praying that they wouldn't wake, and made sure to shut the door behind her. Then, turning, she began to move quickly towards the stairs, tracing in her mind the fastest route to the stables.

She padded down the stairs, moving quickly but quietly. The idea to find Redrick passed through her mind briefly, but she dismissed it. If she escaped, he would know where to find her, and he would come. She did not need him to help her, or hinder her. The servants were all asleep, so close to dawn, and she moved through the halls completely alone.

_Down the stairs, across the great hall, down more stairs, then through the kitchen and out the back door, that will lead me straight to the stables, and I can steal a horse and run away! _She began to run for the kitchen, her flame of hope rising and rising until it nearly suffocated her. Breathless, she imagined seeing Robb again, being beside him and under his protection. Together they would find Arya, and return to the fortress of the North that they called their home.

_Bran, Rickon, Arya, Robb, Jon, mother..._the names of her family rang in her ears. Their faces burst into her mind. Everything was so close, so close, if only she could get away from the lies and death at court.

She burst through the kitchen doors like a sparrow in full flight for liberty. But she had taken no more than three steps when she saw someone sitting directly in her path, blocking the exit on a wooden chair.

It was Jaime Lannister.

He looked different than how she remembered him. His hair was still golden, but it was cropped short, all of the curls gone. His face was more hollow, nearly gaunt, and his green eyes glowed with something dark in them. A light shadow of black and gold brushed his cheeks and mouth, and his was taking swigs from an unmarked bottle. It smelled stronger than spiced wine, stronger than beer. Sansa would have wrinkled her nose if she could move.

His eyes studied her as she stood frozen before him. She had been stared at before by men, she had felt Joffrey's eyes crawling beneath her silks before, but this was something different. He registered every part of her separately, her long hair, her wide blue eyes, her thin arms, budding breasts, slender hips, the recently chewed fingernails, the muscles of her calves. His gaze was indifferent, scathing. It was somehow worse than Joffrey's.

"Sansa Stark. How romantic, we meet here," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm and liquor. "And where are you off to? Fancy a stroll in the stables not quite before dawn? Feeling peckish, looking for a sip of wine? You can have some of mine, if you like. It seems we're about to share from the same cup anyways."

"Ser Jaime, how glad I am to see you've returned safely," she said quickly, never failing in her courtesies. All the same, she judged the gaps on either side of him, how much of the bottle was empty, and which hand he had lost. His right hand was gone, a bandage wrapped over the wrist, but he was still quick with his arms, she assumed. It might be safer to run to his left. His dark laugh drew her attention back to him.

"Oh, I'm sure, my little lady. And how very little you are. Tell me, how old are you?" he asked her, and she hated the sound of his voice. Drawing herself up, she responded with as much pride and dignity as any Stark would have.

"Old enough, ser," she snarled. Jaime Lannister sighed and put down the bottle. He rose, much steadier on his feet than she had hoped him to be.

"So very young, I can tell. I cannot lie to those sweet eyes, I am just mildly disappointed to find my wife to be even younger than Joffrey's. That's fairly horrifying, little wolf." Sansa all but bared her teeth at him, her mouth in a mocking imitation of a smile.

"Do not call me your wife, _ser_, we have yet to be married." She moved slowly to her right, towards his left side, but he caught her subtle motion and mirrored it casually in his own. He laughed at her, then. He laughed at her and it absolutely prickled her skin.

"Planning to run away? My lady, don't presume that because I've lost a hand I've lost anything else. I _can_ catch you, I _will_ catch you, and it's quite unseemly for a lady to be dragged back to her own bed, don't you think?" He came towards her, and just like that her fight was gone. She took the arm he offered her. Graciously, he offered her his left arm. His light tunic was short-sleeved, and she could see the bulge of muscles and the twisting veins that ran from shoulder to knuckles. She shuddered, imagining his powerful hands locked around the hilt of a sword, driving it into her brother.

But he had been right. She was not stronger than him, and if his lean frame and prowess in battle told her anything, it was that he was certainly faster than she.

"Unseemly for me or you, Ser Jaime? I can't imagine it chivalrous to drag a lady anywhere," she said icily, her hand light as a feather on his arm as he escorted her back up the stairs. She blushed as she imagined how she must look; her auburn hair was tangled and pulled back, her night shift only to her knees.

"You're right, of course. A lady must not be dragged. But I could carry you quite easily, and that would suit well enough." He fell silent, and Sansa wondered if he was as treacherous and underhanded as his sister and his nephew. He did not seem quite so lecherous, anyhow. Any glances she received were very tame, not the least bit like Joffrey's.

"Please, Ser Jaime," she whispered, her voice hardly there. But his head turned towards her slightly, and she felt brave enough to continue. "Please let me go. I want to go home, I just want to go home, I'll do anything! I'll renounce my claim, I'll convince Robb to...to...stop the war, I'll do anything!" She stuttered and fell silent; she had nothing to offer him. But he stopped suddenly and released her hand, turning towards her.

"Stay here, Sansa. Behave yourself. Do what you're told. You're going to go home, but I'm going to take you there. If you go riding out yourself, then you're like to get killed, raped, robbed, or anything of the sort. Even if not, my father will have a price on your head and soldiers at your feet, so you will probably be captured and it will be all the worse for you here. If I go with you now, then I am a traitor too. So just wait, please. I will take you home, with an army all around you."

Sansa stood quietly for a moment, staring into his startlingly beautiful green eyes. He was handsome, even as gaunt as he was now, and he seemed kind enough, though his words were quick and hurtful, but she knew better than to listen to a Lannister. She turned from him coldly, walking back up the stairs ahead of him.

"Ser Jaime, a long time ago I trusted a Lannister. He handed me my father's head, and I've yet to trust one since."

* * *

><p>Sansa dressed herself carefully, wearing the slim dress that Margaery had helped her to pick out. It was a lovely dress, falling lightly to her feet and decorated at the ends of the sleeves with stones of onyx. Her necklace was onyx too, set in a delicate silver design. The sash flowed like water from her waist, and her hair was loose down her back. She looked for all the world a maiden of Winterfell.<p>

This time is was Ser Meryn who came to escort her, and she liked him considerably less than she liked Ser Loras. But she was grateful for that; if she saw Ser Loras today, she feared she might cry. Though he had beaten her before, when Joffrey still planned to marry her, he ignored her wholly now, something else she appreciated.

The gathering was rather small and personal in the Morning Hall, where everyone had gathered to break their fast together. On the table was bread and honeycomb, fresh fruits, bowls of cream, bacon, eggs, potatoes chopped and fried, and all manner of dishes. She approached the table and was handed to the announcer.

"Lady Sansa of House Stark," he called loudly, and everyone looked up. She could see Cersei Lannister, Joffrey and Margaery, The Hound, Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrell, Margaery's cousins Elinor, Alla and Megga, Ser Loras, the Redwyne twins, Petyr Littlefinger, Margaery's grandmother the Thorny Queen, Tyrion Lannister, and several others who she did not recognize. And, of course, in the middle seat of the table sat Jaime Lannister, with one empty seat at his left.

She approached him gingerly, her eyes still cautious. He had stared at her merely a few hours before, but now she found he could not look at her. She curtseyed in front of him though, and said what was to be expected of a bride-to-be upon greeting her betrothed.

"My Lord Lannister, how good it is to see you alive and well again. I do so look forward to the joyful union of our Houses." He still didn't look at her, but rose and took her hand nonetheless. Bowing, she felt the barest hint of his breath on her knuckles. He couldn't even bring himself to kiss her hand. When he rose, his eyes were like emerald ice and his tone was as cold and formal as ever she'd heard.

"Whatever you feel, my lady, I feel all the more," he said slowly and clearly. Sansa flushed a little in embarrassment, because the implication behind the words was not very kind. But he seemed to regret his ungentlemanly insinuations and touched her arm gently. "Have a seat, my lady."

"Oh, Sansa! Have you decided on how many children you'd like?" burst Leonette, Garlan Tyrell's young wife. Sansa couldn't help but gasp at the sudden question, and couldn't seem to find a proper answer for it. It was something she of course had not thought of, and had tried very hard to avoid thinking of. But her lordly husband-to-be took a long swig of wine and answered for her.

"Lady Leonette, I think that will entirely depend on the finer points of our wedding night," he said, as if he could not stop himself. The men coughed loudly into their napkins while the ladies covered their mouths and tittered. Sansa blushed deeply yet again, and turned away from him to whoever sat on her left. To her utter humiliation, it was Ser Loras, the handsomest knight of the Kingsguard and, truly, of the entire kingdom. With nowhere to safely look, she instead looked straight down at her plate. She could have cried, if she was not a brave wolf.

"I'm sorry," murmured a low voice to her right. It was so quiet that Sansa was not entirely sure that she had heard it. She looked up slowly, to see him turned slightly towards her, his catlike eyes gentle for once. "I didn't mean that. To hurt your feelings, I mean."

She stared at him now, hurt and angry and weary of the endless torment that was the Lannisters. He very well might have meant it, but she valued the apologies of the lions quite little. She stood, her anger breaking over her in hard waves, her eyes never leaving Jaime's.

"My lords and ladies, excuse me, I find myself not very hungry this morning."

With that, she turned coldly and walked back to her room.

"_Sansa_! Sansa, wait!" called a voice behind her, but once she heard it, she ground her teeth, grabbed her skirts, and began to _run_.

The blood pounded in her head as she sprinted down the long hall and up the spiraling marble stairs, knocking maids and servants over in her frantic need to reach her room unattended. Her breath caught in her throat, her legs burned, but still she ran, until she was nearly to her door. Just a little closer, and-

A hard jerk, and she was hauled backwards by her own sash. The fine white silk tore, and the breath was knocked from her as she fell to the ground. A hard hand pulled her to her feet, and she was reminded how much stronger Jaime Lannister was than she. And now when she met his eyes, they were hard and angry and cold. His expression frightened her, but she did not cry. She had been beaten before, it would be no different if he struck her.

"When I call you, you _come to me_," he snarled, his deep voice terrifying in a way Joffrey's had never been. His left hand was cripplingly strong on her arm; she winced and tried to pull away, but she could not escape his iron grasp. "I have not been blessed with patience, my little wife, and I can't abide chasing you all over the castle."

"Let _go_ of me!" she gasped, but he just shook her, hard. Outraged and indignant, before she could stop herself her free hand flew up and slapped him.

For half a second she was sure he was going to kill her.

Fire and rage flooded his eyes, and she knew how people slayed by Jaime Lannister felt in their last seconds. But then, all of a sudden, it was gone and he had released her. She did not stumble, she did not grasp and rub her painfully throbbing arm. She stepped back and held her head proud.

"I am not your dog, _Ser_. You may one day be my husband, but you do not presume to command me." That said, she turned and walked stiffly into her room, taking care to shut the door quietly behind her.

She waited until she heard him walk away.

Then, and only then, did she dare to shiver and cry.


	5. The Day Before

"She's a child."

Jaime Lannister paced his father's study, his long red cape hanging to halfway down his calves. His eyes were ferocious; he's always been passionate in his beliefs, and he strongly believed that this was a terrible idea.

"She's a woman flowered," said Lord Tywin firmly, straightening the papers on his desk without a glance at his eldest son. "A lovely girl, I might add. Many of the young men here are quite envious of you, Jaime." His son scoffed behind him.

"Young being the key word, father. Fledglings, green boys. I want no part of their Lady Stark, they can _have_ her." Lord Tywin turned in his chair, his breath hard and angry.

"And her claim too? Jaime, give me a name. Tell me who could be the Lord Protector of Winterfell and I'll gladly hand them the Stark girl. Tyrion? That dwarf is no leader of men. The Northmen will take it for an insult should we send him there. Lancel? The fool can barely stand, let alone get her with child. I am the Hand of the King; my place will be here, and I cannot leave north. Martyn is held captive by Robb Stark, Tyrek is missing, Daven is marrying a Frey. Like it or not, Jaime, our line is running rather low on eligible sons."

"Just give her to Tyrion, he's as capable as any!" growled Jaime, running a hand through his short hair. "Or Tommon, for god's sake. Let her stay here for the time being with Tommen!"

"What we need isn't merely a husband, Jaime!" snapped Tywin, his expression bright and angry. "We need someone strong to control a realm! Tommen is too easily manipulated, and as I've said before, the Northmen will be insulted by the sight of Tyrion on their chair. If they believe that Sansa Stark willingly married a strong, generous man, then they might more easily bend to the will of the Lannisters, and just like that we have the North!"

"Fine, then let me take her north and wed her there," said Jaime in a low voice, but his father laughed.

"Jaime, you and that girl will not leave until she is carrying a child in her belly," he said firmly, and that was that.

* * *

><p>She hadn't seen Jaime Lannister around in days.<p>

Not that she'd minded; Sansa now spent most of her time hawking and riding with Margaery and her ladies, enjoying the pleasant company of women for once. Jaime spent most of his time with his father and siblings, and with the Kingsguard. He was most often seen with Cersei, walking with her and speaking quietly with her. Sansa knew them to be twins, and it was strange how alike they looked. If Ser Jaime had grown his curls out again, it would have been uncanny, but he seemed to prefer it short now. She'd heard from Margaery that they were crafting a golden hand for him to wear in place of his real one.

Now that was something for the singers...the traitor maid of Winterfell marrying her enemy, the golden-handed lion of Lannister. The thought of his golden hand gave her shivers.

But as far as singers went, Redrick seemed less inclined to write about her love story with the Kingslayer, and more inclined to write one for them. Every day he presented her with a dozen new songs and poems; he could no longer tell her how he loved her, but instead he furiously wrote songs for the court, and Sansa knew they were for her. 'Snow Princess,' 'Roses for his Wife,' 'A Widow's Love,' each song he wrote was filled with passion and longing. He was often chosen to sing for the court at supper, and Sansa couldn't help but be sad when she heard the sorrow in his voice. But she was seated next to Jaime for every supper, so she dared not even look at her singer then.

He rode with them still, singing and laughing with she and their companions, but it was different now. Her wedding was looming ever closer, and they could both feel it in the air.

They were all sitting in the Maidenvault when he noticed a deep purple bruise on her upper arm. Taking her arm gently in his hands, he touched it with his cool fingers. Sansa didn't flinch away, but she could not stop a slight wince when he rubbed it a little.

"Where did you get this?" he asked her quietly, much too soft for the Tyrells to hear. Sansa looked down and shrugged. She withdrew her arm from him.

"He...my Lord Lannister underestimated his strength," she murmured, touching the bruise tenderly. "He only grabbed my arm." Still, Redrick looked furious. His lustrous dark eyes were sad and outraged all at once, and he took her face gently in his hands.

"No one should harm a precious flower like yourself," he growled, his hands trembling on her skin. "By the gods, I would kill him..."

Sansa laughed and touched his hand affectionately. "Sweet Redrick, you are no fighter. And even if you did kill him, it would only mean death for you." His eyes met hers in defiance.

"Not if I challenged him for your hand," he argued, but she shushed him and touched his lips. Her expression was no longer playful, but deathly serious.

"My mother had a man challenge for her hand, for love," she said slowly, firmly. "He thought that his love for her would win out over the strength of his opponent. He lost, and was banished. Love doesn't always win. It's strength and cunning that will overpower everything else in the end."

He nodded sadly, his dark curls brushing his shoulders briefly. But, before she could stop him, he leaned forward and stole another kiss. "He might have your hand, but I'll always hold your heart, I know." She smiled.

"My heart belongs in Winterfell," she said softly, standing. He stood with her, half a head taller than her. His handsome face still took her breath away.

"Then to Winterfell we shall go, my love," and he leaned forward and kissed her hair. "You and I will be there together one day. I care not for worldly vows, my only vow is that of truth and love. Marry your Lannister if you want, but be the wife of my heart."

"Pretty words for a singer," she teased him, "but merely words."

"And what words!" burst a voice from behind them, and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. They both whipped around, and the Kingslayer himself was standing in the great doorway of the Maidenvault. Margaery and her cousins leapt to their feet, not particularly aware of the words exchanged between Sansa and the singer but quite aware that Jaime Lannister had entered their private rooms.

"Ser Jaime, we welcome your presence, but need I remind you that this is the _Maiden_vault?" said Margaery icily, drawing herself up. "We of course take no offense at the intrusion, but it is unseemly for an uninvited man to allow himself in here."

"Don't worry yourselves ladies, I am merely here to fetch my darling and ever-faithful betrothed. She won't belong to the Maidenvault for too much longer, I dare say," he said rather crudely, and Sansa couldn't believe how much this vile man made her blush. He held out his good hand. "To me, Sansa."

He was calling her again like a dog, but it wouldn't do to cause a scene here. She would endure him with a good temper until she was back safe and sound at Winterfell, like he'd promised. She drew herself up and walked to him, but she did not accept his hand. Rather, she walked up beside him and bid her companions a good day until her return.

"Your singer seems to have developed quite a liking for you," he commented as they walked through the vast halls. Sansa tried hard not to show any reaction to his words, and the coldness came to her quickly. She pretended she was with Joffrey again, enduring his poisonous words and trying not to get herself hurt.

"Singers are singularly passionate people, but their passions come and go," she said airily, not quite responding to his comment but not ignoring him either. "Not unlike most other men." He laughed at that, and let the subject go, for which she was grateful. "Where are you taking me?"

"Did you forget our wedding tomorrow? I'm so disappointed, I had hoped you at least marked the date," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. She stiffened at that, irritated by his endless japes, but continued walking beside him. She hadn't forgotten the fear she'd felt as his rage, and much preferred his teasing in its stead. "Anyhow, you're to be in your room for the fitting of the dress and other womanly things, I assume. I'm not allowed to see you again until we're standing on the altar, try your hardest to hold your tears. It's difficult, I know."

She might have laughed at his humor once, but she could not laugh now. Not when she was a mere day away from losing her maidenhood and becoming a Lannister all at once.

"And here we are. We part at these doors, my little wife, take care not to do anything silly between now and tomorrow, and I bid you goodnight." He swept a low bow, grasping her hand and kissing her fingertips. Sansa wasn't sure that anything he had just said was serious, especially when he called her that mocking nickname. But then he turned and was gone, and she was left standing outside of her own room.

The guards opened the door for her, and inside waited Cersei Lannister, Myrcella, Leonette, and a few serving ladies. Leonette and Myrcella looked absolutely ecstatic, but Cersei had an expression of patient suffering on her face.

"Alright Sansa, strip."

She slipped out of her soft yellow dress, the blue lacing sliding undone under her shaking fingers. Leonette began rummaging through a chest while Cersei helped to undo the laces in the back of Sansa's corset. To her embarrassment, Cersei continued to pull off even her smallclothes, until she stood as naked as the day she was born. The ladies did not seem to dwell on that, however, and rather ignored Sansa's flushed attempts to cover herself.

"How about this one?" called Leonette, apparently holding something up, but Sansa's back was to her and she couldn't see. The queen regent shook her head though, a small laugh bursting through her thin lips.

"There's no way. That color would be terrible with her hair. Besides, Jaime detests pink."

"Then how about the white one? Does Ser Jaime favor himself a virgin?"

"Jaime favors a woman grown with experience. There's no need to remind him how young she is." Sansa felt her heart drop for one terrified moment. Would she be a disappointment, then? Would he be disgusted or frustrated with her innocence? But the thoughts were cast from her mind. Why should she care how he felt about her? It wasn't her fault she was a maid, and were it her choice she would be one forever if it meant not marrying a Lannister.

"The sheer black?"

"Hm...it's sheer, so it shouldn't show through the white of the gown. Anyways, the gown is a thick material, I don't believe the color matters. Sure, do the sheer."

Margaery burst into the room suddenly, breathless and delighted. "I'm so sorry Sansa, I'd forgotten that this was today! I'd have taken you here myself if I'd remembered!" She looked over Sansa's shoulder, her eyes widened, and suddenly she giggled quite girlishly.

"What? I don't-" Leonette stepped into view and began to stuff something over Sansa's head. It was soft, delicate, and most _very_ sheer. "No! _No_! Stop, I don't -take it off this instant!" She squealed in a very unladylike manner until the three women had successfully pulled the delicate garment over Sansa's bare body. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and gaped, unable to look for more than a moment without flushing a dark red.

The garment they had chosen was low and short, as best described, reaching from mid-breast to the very tops of her thighs, hardly hiding her most private area between her legs. It was laced with silvery blue at the top and the hem, and also running down the sides, the design alternately rising and falling and curling to accentuate her most feminine parts. It was so sheer that nothing was hidden. Sansa could see her entire body, from the dimple of her bellybutton to the curves of her abdomen, and not to mention her nipples, breasts, and mound.

"Do I have to _wear this_?" she squeaked, attempting to cover her body with her hands. The ladies laughed merrily, all but Cersei Lannister.

"Sansa, it's all in good fun!" giggled Margaery, tickling the back of Sansa's thigh playfully.

"Yes, you'll be in that or nothing anyways, or both!" laughed Lady Leonette, but Sansa somehow felt that nothing might be better than this absolutely scandalous garment.

"Am I allowed to look yet?" complained Myrcella, who had been ordered by all three not to look until they said so.

"It will be beneath your wedding gown, besides, so no one else will see it anyways," said Cersei shortly, grabbing the heavy white gown that was laid out on the bed. "Come now, Leonette, help me get this on her."

And so they spend nearly an hour putting Sansa's wedding dress on her.

It was quite a beautiful dress, she had to admit. The gown was gossamer, falling about her hips like a fairy's wings. The corset, of a stronger material, pushed up what breasts she had, and was decorated in scales of mother-of-pearl. Half-sleeves were tightened to her arms, falling in transparent folds to her hands, and she wore a lovely headdress over her forehead and hair, also of mother-of-pearl. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, traditional for maidens to be wed. Sansa took one look in the mirror and nearly burst into tears.

"Sansa," said Margaery breathlessly, "I hope I look half as lovely as you for my wedding day!"

"Yes, I'm sure Ser Jaime will be quite pleased," said the queen dryly. "Maid, take in the hem a little bit, and the sides of the corset too. Have it ready by tomorrow." The maid curtseyed and made note of the measurements to be taken in. They all began to unlace the lovely gown, and Margaery took the headdress and put it back into its velvet-lined box.

"Get some sleep tonight, Lady Sansa, you've got a long day tomorrow." Cersei left her before they had finished removing the gown, leaving Leonette and Margaery to put away the heavy dress. Sansa helped them as much as she could. Myrcella watched with large eyes, playing with a paper flower she had found on Sansa's desk.

"I'll stay with you tonight, Sansa," said Margaery secretly. "I know you must be terribly nervous alone in here!"

"Thank you," murmured Sansa in return, feeling closer to Margaery than ever. The Tyrell girl embraced her warmly as Lady Leonette bid them a cheerful goodnight and left.

"Can I stay too?" burst Myrcella, quite caught up in the excitement. Sansa smiled and held out her hand.

"Of course you may stay," she offered pleasantly. "We can tell stories until it gets dark, come Myrcella!" They leapt into bed to play Knights and Maidens and tell stories of dragons, wizards, goblins, and witches until they all three shivered with delightful horror.

Myrcella fell fast asleep first, leaving the two girls awake as she snored softly between them in the enormous bed.

"How do you feel, Sansa?" asked Margaery seriously, her expression concerned. "Will you be okay?" Sansa knew she shouldn't trust anyone, but Margaery made her feel so safe and protected, especially from Joffrey, that she had few qualms about sharing her thoughts with the girl.

"I don't know," confessed Sansa. "It doesn't even seem real. He's...he's no Joffrey. He hurt me once, but it was an accident, I don't...he loses his temper sometimes. I'm a little frightened of him. He gets so very angry with me. And he teases me so, all the time."

"Still, it could be worse," whispered Margaery, taking Sansa's hand across Myrcella. "If I didn't have Ser Loras, and Highgarden, to protect me, I wouldn't want to face Joff alone. I understand. But when I'm queen, I can send him away all the time to do bidding for the kingdom. Perhaps I can convince Joff to allow a separation between you two, should he desire it also. Or gift you with a personal guard from Highgarden, under the royal command."

"You're too kind," replied Sansa, squeezing Margaery's hand tightly. "But I'm a Stark of Winterfell. We've endured the cold before, and we always will. I shall suffer through this as did many before me, and if the gods are kind, some good may come of it after all."

"You're very brave," laughed Margaery quietly. "How I would have liked you for a sister."

"You can be my sister anyways," murmured Sansa, but Margaery was already asleep.


	6. Wedded and Bedded

The maids dressed Sansa the next morning, having watched the queen regent show them how she wanted it done. Margaery had left her very early, as she had to get dressed and prepared herself to attend, as well as Myrcella. And so Sansa was left alone with three quiet maids who said not a word as they tied laces and brushed out her red curls.

She didn't cry. She watched the magnificent white dress construct itself, watched the large sad eyes of the girl in the mirror. Finally, they fastened the wolf clasp about her shoulders, and she was wearing her House colors on her back. It was a beautiful cloak, grey and white with a direwolf leaping across the back, but she knew it would be red and gold soon enough. Perhaps the dresses were white to always match whatever cloak the bride was given...she knew Jaime would be in gold and scarlet, too.

She knew that Margaery, on the day of her wedding, would be wearing flowers in her curly brown hair and flowers about her waist and so many flowers in her hands, but that was because she was a Tyrell of Highgarden. As a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa would be decked in cold silver, and she was, at her neck and wrists.

Everything she wore was a gift of the Lannisters, since Sansa had nothing with her except for her claim. But it would be paid back, again and again, in this marriage.

Finally the maids led her to the hall beside the central courtyard, the largest and most beautiful one of all. Many princesses and queens had been married there, as well as duchesses, lords, and the like. It was called amongst the lower houses the Courtyard of Kisses, and romantic it most certainly was. In the autumn, the leaves of the trees were magnificent, and the grass was still lush and green. A cool breeze freshened the atmosphere.

It was a monstrous courtyard, too; large enough to seat the entire court in the stands along the sides, as well as allow space in the center for eventing. Sansa had even watched Tommen practice jousting there, once. But the fact that she was being married there only meant that the entire court would be in attendance, to witness the union of their Houses.

Joffrey was beside her, all of a sudden, and Sansa felt herself recoil.

"I'm to present you, today," he said rather forcefully, grabbing her arm. "I'll be your father for your wedding."

She felt an angry retort rise in her, but bit it down. She did not want a bruise on her face the moment of her marriage. The court would see her as a cold, beautiful lady of the north, or as nothing. She allowed King Joffrey to lead her to the front arch of the courtyard.

A step, and a hundred pipes burst into song, and the court sighed, and she saw Jaime Lannister standing at the end of an endless path beside a septon in black. His doublet was black, to her surprise, with gold lions on the sides and slashed in scarlet on the shoulders and sleeves. It was a fantastic confection, but wasn't black unlucky for weddings? Sansa blew the old myth out of her head. Why should she care? It wasn't as if this marriage could be worse. She saw he wore his new golden hand; it wasn't so terrible as she had expected it to be.

All too soon she stood beside him, and the septon was asking them their vows, and Joffrey whipped the silver cloak from her shoulders, and Jaime Lannister removed his own scarlet cloak and stepped behind her to drape it over her. It was so long it trailed beyond her feet, dusting the ground.

And then they were looking at her, she didn't know why, until in the haze she remembered that she was supposed to say something.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," she whispered, her voice barely distinguishable from the autumn breeze.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said Jaime, his voice resounding through the courtyard like the crack of a drum.

And his hand touched her face, he drew close, and pressed his lips against hers. There was no passion in it. He barely touched her. When he withdrew, she was grateful that he did not make this more awful for her. If he had been younger, and they were wed in the first snow of Winterfell, and he was not a Lannister, she might have loved him.

The crowd seemed to surge forward, everyone intent on welcoming her. Cersei Lannister pressed a cold kiss to her forehead and then disappeared for the rest of the evening. Tywin Lannister embraced her, though he did not smile and did not speak. Tyrion shook her hand and wished her many happy children. Joffrey kissed her on the mouth, to her disgust, and wished her no children at all, so he could come and help them. Margaery hugged her tight and close, telling her how beautiful everything looked.

It was an endless ceremony, and Sansa merely wished she could go to her room and sleep. But thoughts of what happened when it was all over, and the bed, brought a chill to her blood. She tried hard not to think about what would happen when the day was done.

There was a magnificent feast, with ten roasted swans and the fruits of autumn all around. Sansa nibbled at a lemon cake, but couldn't stomach much else. Her husband sat beside her, feasting nearly entirely on spiced wine, laughing at the bawdy jokes of the men but not truly enjoying them, she could tell. He hardly even looked at her through the entire feast, until one person was shouting for them to kiss, and then more, and he turned and gently kissed the corner of her mouth. His skin was smooth, and clean-shaven for their wedding.

"That's not a real kiss!" laughed Garlan Tyrell. "Come on, Lannister, surely you've got more than that!"

"Oh? Come a few seats closer and I'll show you exactly how much more, Garlan," Jaime called back to him, to the laughter of those around. Sansa stared at her plate and blushed. Did he have to be so crude? Tyrion and even Joffrey were not so crude as this, not to the public.

"Do you want a boy or a girl, for your firstborn?" asked Alla, Margaery's cousin, mischievously. Sansa smiled tightly and answered whichever was first in her mind.

"Girl," she said firmly.

"Boy," said Jaime.

"You'd better name him Joff, after me, uncle," said King Joffrey loudly. "I'm sure Lady Sansa wouldn't want to forget her king even when she's married to someone else."

They served sliced duck next, roasted with cabbages and red wine. Sansa chewed on the pieces for a long time, unable to converse with those around her. She felt sick, felt as if the red cloak around her shoulders was burning her.

Music began again, and he took her hand to lead the first dance.

Sansa felt cold and heavy inside when she curtseyed to him, with the court all around and soft music rising like mist around them. But then he took her hand in his, placed the golden one at her waist, and they began to dance. And, for the first time all day, she felt alive.

Her breath left her as they whirled across the courtyard, as elegant and light as fairies. He was surefooted and wary of his partner; Sansa never stumbled or lost the rhythm. It was a rare occasion when she had danced with one so graceful, and she suddenly found herself smiling. When he dipped her too low, she even laughed. She was smiling and laughing, and the burst of emotion was too much, and then she was crying. She was crying hard, and he took her aside to no one's notice, since the entire court was dancing now.

She couldn't stop crying, shuddering sobs that racked her whole body. He didn't try to hush her, or tell her to stop, but dried her tears with the sleeve of his doublet and waited silently for her to finish. She fought for control of herself again, shocked at how she'd lost it in front of everyone in such a way. Even with Joffrey, she'd been able to be courteous and indifferent, no matter what he'd done.

"Here, stop crying. Dance with my father." When she wiped her face and managed a weak smile, he stood with her and led her back into the whirl of cloth and couples, and bowed, presenting her to Lord Tywin. "My lord, would you like a dance with my lady wife?"

Sansa danced with Lord Tywin, and then Joffrey, who spent his time with her subtly groping through her wedding gown. To her relief, she was then handed to Margaery, who saw her red eyes but said nothing about them.

Sansa turned her head, and saw her husband dancing with his sister, Cersei; not the exciting, fast dance that everyone else was dancing to, but a slow, rocking one. They seemed to be talking deeply about something. But then she was whirled to the young Prince Tommen and she forgot all about Ser Jaime.

At least, until the sun fell and the sky was lit with red, and someone began to tug at her skirt, and then a lace of her glove, and at the headdress she wore.

"The bedding! The bedding!" rose the cry, and Sansa felt the sudden rush of dread. The men piled around her, the women around Jaime, and they separated by a mass of people. Sansa gasped and cried out as the men pulled at her, unlacing he bodice of her gown, pulling the headdress from her head, unclasping her cape. Her shoes were long gone, torn from her feet when they had lifted her off of the ground. Joffrey was there too, and his hand slid up her skirts to give her bottom a hard squeeze.

Sansa fought to get away, but there was no escaping the horde. By the time they got to the door, Sansa was in the sheer black slip she'd been horrified at the day before, fighting back tears as hard as she ever could. The hooting and catcalls were unbearable. But they dumped her in the bed, and hastened away while the ladies finished with Jaime.

Finally, they two were lying in the same bed, he as naked as the day he was born and she almost as much. Sansa shut her eyes tightly, drawing her knees to her chest and shivering. She waited for him to touch her, to force her legs apart and take what was rightfully his, but for a moment he did not move. Then the bed shifted and she heard him walking across the room.

"Would you like something to drink, Sansa?" he said in a low voice, and she hesitated, then cracked her eyes open. He was standing across the room, his back to her, pouring mead from a bottle. She blushed heavily when she saw his bare back and buttocks and thighs, and her eyes immediately flew elsewhere.

"I...yes, if it please you, my lord."

"It does. Now drink," he said, handing her a goblet. She drank three long gulps, her head spinning but her heart pounding all the harder. She waited for him again, but he had walked away from her, and was drinking deeply from his own cup. She remembered the feast, when he had eaten or drunk little else but wine. He seemed fairly flushed, and could hardly bring himself to look at her.

"This is wrong," he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear. "I was supposed to bring you home safe...I thought I could convince them to let me bring you home." Sansa felt her hope die a little more, wondering if he had given up on bringing her home. But she waited silently, as he spoke almost to himself. "I promised Lady Catelyn I'd bring you home. I made an oath you'd be safe and unharmed."

It almost sounded like he was confessing to her. He turned, then, and walked towards her. She squeaked at the sight of his naked form, but he ignored her, seating himself at the edge of the bed. His golden head hung nearly to his knees, his hands in his hair.

"I promised you'd be safe...not a scratch, not a drop of blood...but the only way I can bring you back is by drawing it myself. Not blood of the body...maiden's blood, but blood nonetheless. Brienne will kill me when she finds out..." he whispered, and briefly Sansa wondered who she was. But she felt more and more sad as he continued to speak, as if expelling the words would make him clean. "I can't leave until you're with child. Father won't let me leave until you've got a lion in your belly, and he'll kill me for a traitor if I go before. My hand is gone, I cannot defend you anymore."

He was most certainly drunk, and his control was wavering. Sansa suddenly understood very well what was going on, and she now knew the price of Winterfell. Her price, anyways. The realm would come with a hefty tag indeed; was she willing to pay it?

She imagined herself in Winterfell, surrounded by little golden-haired babies, and then herself still here, in the Palace, with Cersei and Joffrey. It was as if there was no second choice.

She scooted behind him, and nervously placed a hand on his back. He didn't move; he could have been a statue. _What would Robb think of me? Can I really...what is more important? Would mother understand? Would father have understood?_

But they were not here anymore, and she must give penance for that. It was her fault, after all.

She gently, hesitantly, kissed his bare shoulder. His head rose from his hand, and he did not look at her, but his breath was heavy. She remembered how Redrick had kissed her; on the shoulders, the neck, the collarbone. She blushed to think of that, and of it being the other way around.

But she placed her lips on his neck, on the nape, then the sides, and then once on the collarbone. Her breasts brushed him gently on the arm as she moved, through the fabric of the black slip. She was nearly beside him now, and when she looked down his good hand was gripping the covers of the bed.

"Sansa, don't, please. You're still so young," he ground through his teeth. But he did not push her away, it seemed he couldn't. When she looked down at his lap again, she nearly gasped in fear, but caught her breath. His manhood was rigid and significantly larger than it had looked before, just as Margaery's cousins and the maids would whisper about in the Maidenvault. She was a little frightened, but she knew that whatever she was doing was working. Still though, it looked far too large to fit in the secret place between her legs.

"I'm a maiden flowered," she told him firmly, moving to stand in front of him. She forced herself not to cross her arms in front of her chest, instead letting them rest on her hips. His eyes had not closed, anyhow; he seemed to be drinking in the sight of her slender body, sheathed in the sheer fabric. "And I'm not so young as to be naive, _ser_. I know what I'm buying."

"Where did you get this?" he asked her, his fingers reaching forward to pinch the material at her thigh. She shivered a little at his touch.

"Cer-Queen Cersei gave it to me," she managed, forcing herself not to pull away. He released it suddenly, a dark laugh bursting through his lips.

"Of course she did. How very helpful of her," he muttered, but Sansa did not understand. His green eyes met hers then, and she saw a little of the desire she so often had seen in Joffrey. It was terrifying and encouraging, all at once. "I want you, Sansa. Does that frighten you? Does that make me monstrous?"

"N-no, my lord. I am honored," she managed to say, her shields rising once more. He stared at her, not moving, for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally, he spoke.

"Do you understand what you're asking for?" he said slowly, his green eyes never leaving hers. She swallowed and, trying not to look like a scared girl but a brave lady of Winterfell, she nodded. Reaching down to grasp the hem, she pulled the slip over her head in one fluid motion.

And then, so suddenly, he moved towards her. She bit down a squeak and forced herself to sit still. His hand touched her, not hard and purposeful like Joffrey's, but not exactly of its own will, like Redrick's. It was almost as if he was forcing himself to move, as she forced herself not to. He touched her cheek, her jaw, her hair, her neck, her shoulder, the back of his hand brushed against her breast. His fingers grazed her belly, then rose again to her face.

He leaned closer, and she could smell the spicy scent of the wine on his breath. Her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. He withdrew then, and opened her eyes, confused.

"Don't close your eyes," he said almost coldly, his own eyes dark and emerald. "You won't pretend you're not doing this. You will know the price you're paying."

"I…yes, my lord," she said meekly, and he leaned forward again. This time his mouth was more forceful, and she responded as well as she could as he ravaged her mouth, kissing her lips repeatedly, biting at them, forcing them open and plunging his tongue between them.

Sansa tried to keep up, but his experience in this sort of thing far surpassed whatever light kissing she'd done with Redrick the singer. The force of it pushed her backwards, until she was lying back in the thick bedding, holding his shoulders and trying not to seem such a virgin.

His hand roamed over her side, caressing her hips and belly while he leaned on his right forearm, taking care not to put any weight on his wounded golden hand.

Then it moved between her legs, and pushed them apart. He shifted until his weight settled between her soft thighs, and for a moment he stayed there, arched over her braced on one hand, sweat beading on his fair brow.

"Are…are you sure, Sansa?" he asked her, his eyes intense and pained, but he remained immobile. "Is this what you want?"

She met his eyes with her own steady, even gaze.

"I want to go home."

He stared at her for over a full minute, and she felt that for an instant he had seen past her shields and her cold courtesy, her confusing shifts of emotion. He understood, in that moment, a little more of Sansa Stark than dozens of others had.

And then he lowered his head, leaned back to line himself up with her. A hot hardness pressed at her most feminine parts, and she bit her lips, trembling only a little. She waited for him to break her maidenhead, to bring the pain and tears described by the servant girls. Her hands on his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly, though she fought to control them.

But he didn't push himself inside of her. He leaned forward again, kissed her auburn hair, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. He couldn't bring himself to apologize to her again, but she knew that he was.

And then he bucked his hips, a smooth, powerful motion that broke clean through her maidenhood and buried him deep inside of her, so deep she gasped and lost her breath and couldn't even cry out in pain. Her inner muscles fluttered agonizingly along his length as began to rock back, withdrawing almost entirely, and then forward, plunging deeper than before.

"Please!" gasped Sansa, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please, just…wait! Please!" He froze over her, still braced on his left hand, the only part of their bodies touching below the waist, and her hands on his arms. He was breathing as if he'd just finished a melee, and a droplet of sweat dripped from his chest to hers.

She caught her breath, tried not to whimper. Breathing deeply again, she tried to relax her abdomen, her tightly clenched inner muscles, but without much relief. Once he moved again, they were as tense and pained as before. She couldn't help the tiniest whimper from escaping between her lips. He noticed, though; he always noticed.

"Put your feet up," he grunted through tightly ground teeth. He was fighting to hold still, she could see, to not hurt her more than he had to.

"Wh-what?" she stammered, not understanding what he meant. He took a few deep breaths before speaking again.

"Your feet, lift them up and put them on my shoulders," he clarified, sitting back on his heels and grabbing one ankle with his left hand. She followed his lead, hesitantly lifting her other foot and resting it on his shoulder. It felt very strange, and didn't look like how she'd always imagined bedding to be, but then he leaned forward and she gasped as her lower back was lifted from the cushions.

She whimpered again when he thrust himself back into her, but it wasn't entirely of pain. There was a different feeling too, a sort of ticklish one that intensified when he thrust again. It continued to build, until at nearly every thrust sounds were forcing their way past her lips, and then none were from pain.

He said nothing to her, refrained from touching her, and he forced down any noise she suspected he might have otherwise allowed from himself. She tried to stifle her increasingly growing cries, but it was futile; every rippling motion from his strong stomach brought her even closer to come unseen edge, on which she already teetered precariously.

"Ohh…oh! OH!" she gasped, her hands twisted hard in the silk sheets. She wondered if anyone could hear them from behind those thick doors.

"It seems the Starks aren't so cold behind those tall walls!"

"Slap her tits!"

"Let's hear your best howl, wolf girl!"

She remembered the bawdy comments from the court when she had been a young girl, not understanding most of them and just enjoying the general delight of the court. But now, at the center of attention, she was filled with humiliation; here, with a Lannister between her legs, she was shaming her own house.

But all of those thoughts were blown from her mind when he leaned back, pumped her hips a few times in quick succession, and then buried himself to the hilt in her. Her vision blurred, then burst into explosions of stars as an intense feeling rushed from the wet heat between her legs to the very tips of her fingers and toes, curled and arched in the pleasure of it.

"Oh, Jaime! _Jaime!" _she screamed despite herself. The catcallers at the door were hooting in delight at her loss of control, but she could hardly hear them over the sound of her own pleasure.

The wetness between her legs doubled, overflowing until it dripped out onto her thighs, and he withdrew from her. She lay still, breathless and horrified at her obscene performance. He lay beside her, panting heavily, staring up at the ceiling.

"That's our Lion! Killing fools and bedding wenches!"

"Do 'er again, Jaime!"

Sansa shuddered to herself. If he turned and crawled over her again, she didn't know what she'd do. Humiliated, she sniffed and began to pull the blankets up and over herself. Perhaps she could drown out the crude suggestions being yelled through the door.

But that wouldn't be very brave. She merely pulled the blankets around her, to warm herself after he had moved away from her. She was wedded and bedded, there was nothing more to it. It was done.

"Have I pleased you, my lord?" she asked him quietly, and he stared at her for a moment, thrown off by the cold courtesy, so different from the screaming girl he'd bedded only a few minutes before. Her walls were back up, and they were strong walls indeed.

"I…yes, you've done…wonderfully. Just, just go to sleep, Sansa," he said wearily, not quite sure how to answer her. How could he tell her how sweet and innocent, and yet passionate she'd been? How could he tell her how he regretted the life she should have had, at the hands of some youth who would love her for it? Her heart had once been full of love, he could see, ready for the first romance she was thrust into. But that was something he was not able to give. Cersei had been his first love, and she would always be his love. He had nothing to give her but his compassion, and it wasn't enough.

She curled beneath the blankets, and he pulled her to his chest in a fool's charade of the protection he should have been able to offer her. But, how could he protect this girl he'd sworn to when he had nothing to defend her with?

The golden hand mocked him, glimmering in the light of the moon.


	7. Three Days

Hey, if you're bothered by super mature material, you should have stopped reading like one chapter ago...just saying. This is rated M for a reason. You knew what you were getting into.

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><p>Sansa woke alone, the sun beaming through the giant windows, in the Kingslayer's bed. She looked around, but she was definitely by herself; not even a maid was in the room.<p>

She rolled from the bed, realized she was naked, and stifled a squeak of surprise. Looking around, she found nothing suitable for her to wear; the only clothes of hers in the room were her wedding dress and the scandalously small slip Cersei had forced over her head.

Since neither was appropriate to be running around the palace in, she began to shuffle through Jaime's large wooden wardrobe. If she found something decent, she might make it to her room unnoticed and be able to dig up some clothes there.

She found a light cream tunic, likely to be worn with breeches, but long enough to fall low on her thighs. She fastened a brown belt around her waist and tiptoed to the door. No guards stood outside of Jaime Lannister's door, she knew; a knight of the Kingsguard had very little need for guards.

She could make it to her room…and then what? Gather her things and run away? It made no difference, the fact that she was left without guards. She was wedded and bedded, and even if she made it to Winterfell and under the protection of her brother, Jaime Lannister could walk up to the castle door, knock, and be handed his wife, as was his right.

Besides, Jaime had been right that first night she'd seen him. If she rode out alone, she'd likely be captured, killed, or raped.

But, with no guards, she could easily find Redrick, and leave with him for the Vale. No one would know she'd go there, and she could live her life as a faceless woman, the wife of a handsome singer.

Before she could make her choice, the door swung open in her face, nearly hitting her. She gasped and stumbled backwards a few steps.

"Ah, my little wife is up and about," came the mocking voice of her husband. "It's a little late for cold feet, isn't it my lady?" She hated how he teased her, hated his jovial morning mood when all she wanted was to go to her room.

"My lord, if I could just get my clothes," she managed, trying to move around him. He leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking her path. She stopped and looked up into his bright green eyes. He wasn't quite smiling, but his expression was one of definite amusement.

"Oh, my absent-minded wife, you forget your wedding customs already? What a terrible time to misremember," he sighed, picking a cherry from the bowl of fruit he held and popping it in his mouth. She stared at him, and then shook her head.

"I don't…I…oh, oh _no,_" she nearly wailed in despair. It was more of a joke than a true wedding custom, but it was one enforced all the same. She was to stay in her husband's bed for three days and nights before being released to return to her own rooms if she wanted, where if he wished to take his rights, he would come to her from then on.

"Yes, try not to be so excited, my dear wife," he said in a bored tone, licking a smear of cream from his thumb. "The way you just throw yourself at me, it's really not proper." Sansa flushed pink and regained her composure almost immediately.

"I...I apologize, my lord," she said, inclining her head slightly. "I forget myself." He moved past her into the room, seating himself on the edge of the rather disheveled bed.

"Yes, well, if you'd care to forget yourself again," he said, patting the space next to him. Sansa took in a quick breath, not sure what he was implying, but his expression seemed innocent enough. She approached him hesitantly, as if he'd spring at her. But he sat patiently until she eased herself down beside him. He held out the bowl of fruit and cream, and she plucked a fresh strawberry from the offering. She tried to ignore his intense gaze as he watched her eat his food, legs crossed beneath her on his bed. "Why are you wearing my tunic?"

"Oh, I um...I," she tried to begin, but she could not lie to her husband. "I wanted to go back to my room, my lord. I don't have anything decent."

"I'm pretty sure that's the point of the three days," he scoffed, looking away. "But I'm glad you found something suitable." He acted as if it was better than nothing, but Sansa could hear it in his voice; he could have controlled his desire better if she were naked rather than when she wore his clothes.

She waited for him to move towards her; the desire was rolling off of him in waves, they could both feel it. But he rose, and walked towards the door. "I have some things to take care of. Feel free to make a break for your room, but don't be surprised if they bring you back here. Everything in here is yours now, feel free to look around."

And without a second glance, he was gone.

She sat in surprise for a moment, but then recovered. If he wanted to leave her alone, fine, all the better for her. She stood and began to walk around the room, examining the surroundings of this place where she was being held captive. She was glad he'd left the bowl of fruit behind, the creamy dish was perfect for breaking her fast. She nibbled on orange slices as she tinkered with all of the interesting things in the room, and those connected to it.

One door led to a personal weaponry room, where she shuddered as she examined sharp-edged swords, daggers, axes, and spears. One sword was of sharp Valyrian steel, black with red ripples in the metal, like none she'd ever seen. There were two enormous greatswords, and several longbows strung on the walls. She touched the edge of a hooked dagger and made a tiny cut in her finger. The room was well-lit with several small windows, not large enough for a thief to slip through but there were many of them letting in light.

Another door led to a small, personal library, with what looked like many worn and well cared for books. She wondered how long he'd spent collecting these, how many he'd read, and what they all were. But, not sure she really wanted to know, she quickly left the room.

The last door lead to a large, lavish bathroom, complete with a bathing pool sunken into the stonework floor. She touched her scalp briefly, then her face and the back of her neck. The insides of her thighs still had a traces of their romp from the night before, the liquids dried into a sticky, translucent crust. She tried not to think too hard about it, and stepped forward to run herself bath.

The pipes in the walls ran across the kitchens, and she knew the water would be hot. Pulling the lever, she watched as the water ran into the shallow pool, taking the time to undo the belt and pull the tunic over her head. She would have to find something suitable to wear later.

Stepping into the bath, she sighed when the heat ran through her toes and sent a delicious chill up her spine. Sinking into the hot water, she left only her face at the surface. Her long, luxurious hair spilled out in ripples around her body, catching the soft glow of the morning light.

Finally, she sat up and began to scrub herself with a rough cloth beside the pool. The dirt from the day before sloughed off, and she self-consciously cleaned the insides of her thighs. Then, gingerly, she probed herself with two fingers and cleaned herself inside, too. The motion brought a faint blush to her cheeks, but she continued scrubbing up her body in slow, satisfying strokes.

Steam from the bath rose, cleaning out her lungs as well as she breathed in the fragrance of the honey soaps. She breathed slowly, contemplating her situation. She was married, she was no longer a maiden, and her husband was tall and handsome, albeit too old for her tastes and an enemy of her House. When they returned to Winterfell, she might be able to bring him to her side, as he did not seem quite so tainted as the rest of her family.

But he was her husband now, by the laws of gods and men, and there was no changing that.

And so she took deep breaths of the warm, delicious air, and thought about what it meant to be a wife. She thought about her mother, and wished she were here to show her. But she remembered how her mother had been with father; warm, supportive, filled with light and laughter. Catelyn had been there for her father's darkest moments, and vice versa. They had been partners in life, standing as equals.

Could she be the same with Jaime?

_Mother, is this about the pride of Houses, or my basic duties as a wife?_ she asked in her head. _You always told me what a good wife I'd make. I could be a good wife, still. But his family killed my father, he has played his part against my own brother. So easily, his could have been the hand to kill him. Where do my loyalties lie?_

But to be a good wife did not mean to be loyal to one's husband. _If I bear him sons, I could easily hold them ransom to myself. They'd mean nothing to me, Lannister babes. I could give them to my brother, to throw into the sea. We could control the Lion with what lies between my legs._ She remembered Cersei telling her once that a woman's greatest weapon lay there.

_I will bear him sons,_ she decided, _but I will never be a Lannister._

Rising from the tub, she grabbed a towel and draped it around her waist. Stepping out of the cooling water, she shook out her long auburn waves, droplets of water scattering over the stone floor. Picking up the discarded tunic, she began to walk out of the bathing room.

"Good afternoon, Lady Sansa!" chirped two pleasant-faced maids. Sansa jumped, pulling the towel up to cover her breasts. She stared at the two as they curtseyed prettily in their matching red dresses. "I am Alisoun, and this is Fae," said the one with short gold hair and a million freckles. She gestured to the other one, who was thicker of hip and breast, with long, straight brown hair and rather lovely blue eyes.

"Good afternoon," returned Sansa, curtsying back at them. "Might I ask why you're...here?" She didn't know if they were assigned to clean Jaime's room by the palace staff, or if they were personal servants. That would determine how often she'd see these two, and how well she'd be able to know them.

"We're your personal handmaids, from Ser Jaime's own household," said Fae brightly. "He's assigned you two handmaids, four guards, and four pages, my lady!"

"The guards are outside now, and the pages will come when you send for them," added Alisoun. "We're here to help you dress, and bathe and such!" her amber eyes lit on Sansa's dripping hair. "Well, we see you already have the bathing part done..."

"You're mine?" she asked, her mouth dry. Sansa had never had servants of her own before; her father's servants, and her mother's, but never her own.

"Yes, we're here for anything you need, of course." Alisoun had a heart-shaped, innocent face, but Fae had a mischievous glimmer in her eyes that Sansa had seen in girls before. She turned to Alisoun.

"Can you go to my room and bring me some clothes? Light clothes of course, just...anything I can wear that is my own. And my lute, please!" The girl curtseyed and darted from the room like a bird. She turned to Fae, her cheeks flushing just a little. "Fae...would a personal question offend you?" she asked slowly.

"Of course not, my lady," said Fae, smiling shyly, but Sansa suspected that she knew what her lady would ask.

"Are you a maiden?" she forced herself to say, blushing hotly, but the girl merely laughed.

"M'lady, I haven't been a maiden for three years, not since my first time with m'lord's squire!" she giggled, her cheeks not a whit closer to pink. She seemed to have an odd pride about that. Sansa cleared her throat and tried not to wring her hands together.

"Do...do you know the best way...to...to...to get a baby?" she tried to form the right words, but they wouldn't come to her. Fae laughed impishly.

"Why, doing the same as what you did last night, my lady," she teased, clearly as aware of the goings on as the rest of the palace staff must be. Sansa sighed, but she supposed it couldn't be helped. Everyone knew everything in this god forsaken palace.

"No, I mean, to make _certain_, to have one as quickly as possible," she clarified, burning even more brightly. The maid pursed her lips and nodded.

"Well, if you want to be _sure_," she said thoughtfully, "then do it every day, for at least two or three weeks. Maybe more than once a day, if you want to be sure." Sansa's heart fell. Two or three _weeks_? Why did it take so long to make children? She knew women who got big with child after a single encounter! But she didn't bother arguing with Fae, who clearly knew more of this than she did.

"What if...what if he doesn't want me, Fae?" she asked her quietly, ashamed. She remembered how he had left her that morning, rushing from the room as if he couldn't stand to be there with her. She hadn't minded at the time, as she enjoyed time alone and hated being reminded of her marriage into House Lannister, but it was a definite cripple in Fae's suggestion at to how she could bear children. But, to her surprise, the easily cheered maid just laughed again.

"My lady, he might not admit it to you, but he wants you. You've got a woman's curves and a woman's smile; that's all you'll need to convince him."

"And...how else might I convince him?"

* * *

><p>She was waiting for him in the queen's chambers.<p>

He closed the door behind him quietly, then stalked towards her. His eyes were locked on hers, green on green, glittering with desire. She wore a silk dress that clung to her ample curves, her firm, proud breasts thrust upwards in the clinging fabric. It was a deep scarlet, his favorite color on her.

Her golden hair was loose about her shoulders, a waterfall of gold, with the loveliest crown tucked in her curls.

"Oh, Jaime," she sighed as he wrapped his arms around her. "Jaime, I've missed you." He hushed her with his mouth, kissing her into silence. She allowed him to kiss her, caress her arms, hold her tight against him, for only a few moments.

"Cersei, let me stay with you tonight," he groaned into her neck, lavishing it with hot kisses. His desire for her pumped hot into his veins, setting him ablaze. Her scent, her soft hair, her wicked smile, everything about her turned him on. He pressed his hand into the small of her back and ground her against him.

"Are you sure, Jaime? You seemed rather engrossed in that Stark girl last night," she said icily, withdrawing from him. He gritted his teeth; he hated when she invited him to his room only to fight, pretending she was hot for him. "I thought you'd still come to me when you'd bedded her."

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said huskily, trying to win her back to him. "Don't be foolish, you have nothing to fear from that _girl_." True, he had bedded her, but it had been difficult indeed to do it without feeling ugly and lecherous inside. Oddly enough, that was something he had never felt with Cersei, because he loved her truly.

"I'm not sure I believe you," she sniffed. Her fingers tickled erotically at the nape of his neck, at his earlobes, and he tingled all over. "I heard her last night, Jaime, calling your name. Did you enjoy that? Do you want me to do that? I don't like you with another woman."

"Cersei, _you're_ the one who encouraged me to do it!" he said heatedly. "We both knew I wouldn't be more attracted to her than you, we'd both agreed that it would be alright! For gods' sake, woman, she's a passionate young girl, I can't help what she chooses to do in bed!"

"Well, it looks like you can't help what I do in bed either," she said coldly, drawing tall and distant. "Goodnight, ser."

"Cersei, _you're_ the one I want, it's always been _you_-"

"Goodnight! Please remove yourself from my quarters!"

Angry and flooded with unresolved desire, he turned and left fuming. His cock throbbed hard, still fixed on the image of her waiting for him, clad in red or nothing at all. He rubbed it absently through his breeches, only growing angrier at the thought of having to take care if it himself because of her.

With Cersei's golden hair burning bright in his mind, he flung open the door, where Sansa Stark was lying completely naked in his bed.

He stared at her for a full ten seconds, burning with lust and his cock still rock hard, before turning and very nearly running for his bathroom. _Gods be good, I forgot about the damned girl! _He shut the door behind him, and began to run himself a cold bath.

"My lord," said a hard, determined voice behind him. "Would you like some help with that?" He nearly jumped out of his skin.

"I've always run my own baths, little wife," he said, in a voice slightly higher pitched than he'd intended. Clearing his throat, he shut off the lever and began to lower himself into the freezing water. Without the heat of the kitchens for the hot lever, the water was run straight off of the mountains and was tortuously cold. He flinched as it touched his bare thighs. "Privately," he added.

"I wasn't talking about the bath." Suddenly two small feet dipped into the water beside him, from which emerged two long, smooth calves. He had always loved a woman's legs...

"No, don't, just-" he stumbled over his words, unable to find them in the cold, his lust, and his confusion at the sudden attack. When had she grown so bold? Her feet straddled him, and she knelt in the water, where despite the cold he was still as hard as ever.

"I can take care of it," she whispered, and suddenly laughter burst from him. She withdrew, confused, until he slowed it enough to speak.

"Have you been speaking with Fae?" he gasped, unable to stop laughing. Sansa blushed bright pink all over, from her cheeks to her shoulders. It was rather charming, how often and how brightly she blushed. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she bowed her head a little.

"I...some...how did you know?" she admitted, her blue eyes large and embarrassed. She could be so endearing sometimes.

"She had quite an affair with my squire, as well as some of my servants and once a knight under my command. I've heard all of her seductive little phrases, she's even practiced a few on me. Luckily I've never had the need for her, so she's let it go." He brushed her hair back with his left hand, feeling almost won by her innocent attempts to seduce him.

She caught his hand in hers, brushing her lips across it. He froze when she pulled a finger into her mouth, letting her teeth drag gently on the skin. Her eyes were locked on his, but he saw no desire in them. All he saw was the cold Stark determination. He withdrew his hand from her, his brow furrowing. "What else did Fae tell you?"

She plunged her hand into the water and grasped his cock, and he gasped. The cold, the sudden contact, abruptly what had been a waning pleasure sharpened into something so intense that it nearly blinded him for a moment. She moved her hips forward until her abdomen rested against his.

"I'm going home, my Lord, and if I have to go with you, then I'm taking you," she all but snarled, and true to her word, she took him. Though she was still clearly in pain from the night before, she buried him inside her, sinking into his lap until the soft skin on the backs of her thighs touched his legs. A ragged sound escaped his throat, and his hand was tight on her thigh. He looked up at her; in the darkness of the waning evening, her eyes could have been green.

That was all he needed. Standing, he held her tight to him with his left hand while he stepped from the cold water. Her arms were slung around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist. She trembled, from desire or pain he did not know, but he cared little. He set her down against the wall, turned her so her front was pressed against it. She had a long back, a beautiful figure; her skin was soft and pale in the darkness. If her hair was gold, she would have been a younger Cersei. From behind, she could be.

His hand pushed her hard into the wall as he thrust himself back into her. She was soft and warm and fragrant, and as willing as he needed. She cried out, but he hardly heard her.

He leaned over her, burying his face in the hair at her neck. He wished he had his two hands again, one simply wasn't enough. It roamed her thighs, her abdomen, her back, her shoulders, until he tangled it in her hair and pulled her head back, baring that long, slender neck. He bit into the side, the smell of her overpowering his senses.

He remembered when he and Cersei were young, and their passion had overpowered all obstacles. He would go to her, and she would open her arms to him. She would welcome his kisses, his gentle caresses, until they were both lusting unbearably and she would welcome his ferocity.

"_Cersei_," he groaned, so softly that Sansa could not have heard him. He twisted the hand that was in her hair, and began pounding her fiercely against the wall. Her hands scrabbled at the wall, her shoulders flexed over and over, and a small whimper escaped her lips, but he could not stop himself.

He went on and on, hard and angry and overflowing with desire, his hips smacking against her wet skin more and more powerfully. He did not see the trickle of blood that escaped from inside her and dripped down her thigh. He did not see the blood that caked at her fingers, from where she scratched desperately against the unyielding stone. All he saw was the white hot burning in his blood, the flash of green eyes and golden hair.

He could not finish, not standing there with her. He stepped back, pulling her with him, and dropped her to the stone floor. She crumpled beneath him, still connected at the joint between their legs, and arched over her with one hand between her shoulderblades, he pumped faster and faster, teeth bared and eyes nearly closed.

A sound, part snarl and part joy, escaped his throat as he hilted himself in her and paradise washed over him. He gave a few more shallow thrusts before withdrawing. He stood, one hand against his brow, and left the bathing room. Sansa didn't move from the floor.

Breathing hard, he lowered himself onto the edge of his bed. Shuddering, he recovered from his rage, the frustration that had coursed through him. _I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have done that...none if this is her fault, she's so innocent. That was wrong, that was absolutely monstrous of me. No wonder Joff is the way he is...I'd always thought he got it from Cersei, she's so wicked sometimes...but that was terrible. I shouldn't have done that._

He heard the sound of water running; she was pouring herself a fresh bath, probably a hot one. He remembered seeing the blood, seeing it and not caring at all. _Oh gods..._

He'd wait for her, then. He'd wait for her to bathe herself, perhaps to cry to herself, to recover from the hurts he'd given her, before sitting her down and apologizing gently. He'd make it up to her, somehow. _She doesn't deserve this. You fucked her like an animal, you monster._

Someone knocked at the door, and Jaime stood and yanked it open. "_What_?" A page stood before him, young and finely dressed. His face was ashen.

"Ser Jaime, we've just gotten the news. Robb Stark was killed by the Freys, and Winterfell has fallen to the Greyjoys. Sansa Stark's brothers are dead."

* * *

><p>Okay, so I forgot when her little brothers 'die' too, but I think it's actually sometime <em>before<em> her wedding. I just know they 'die' sometime around here, but I think before Robb does...so I just combined the two events to make up for my mistake earlier. Sorry. Please don't comment on it, I KNOW it's not at the same time!


	8. Grief

Alright readers, I have exams coming up, so I either won't be posting at all for like a week or I'll be procrastinating and therefore posting like 3 times a day...just be expecting little gaps between chapters. I seriously can't maintain my two-chapters-a-day rhythm for much longer, but I'll try to get a chapter up nearly every day...

* * *

><p>Her lack of reaction scared him more than any amount of screaming or crying he would have expected. She stood there, draped in a towel and dripping onto his floor, her eyes just growing larger and larger until he was drowning in them. She looked like a starving waif, begging for him to give her anything at all.<p>

"M-may I return to my room, then, ser?" she asked him quietly, her voice barely breaking. He opened his mouth to say yes, but something in her eyes told him to say no.

"You'd best stay here, my lady," he told her firmly but gently. "In the company of others." He didn't dare leave this girl who had nothing alone; no one was more inclined to do rash things than someone who had lost everything. Her exterior was hard and cold, but he knew she must be feeling terribly fragile inside. "If you'd like, you can stay with Margaery for the night."

To his surprise, she shook her head.

"She has company so often, my lord," murmured Sansa, her voice barely a breath in the still air. "I don't want very much company."

He heard and understood her implications, but he was loathe to leave her by herself in a time such as this. But her expression was not very welcoming, not that he expected it to be. Less than an hour ago he had fucked her until she bled. He nodded and bowed low.

"Then, lady Sansa, if I could have your leave," he said, then turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind him. Sansa's four guards stood watchful outside of the room. "You all, make sure she doesn't go around by herself. Expect sounds of distress from her, but pay attention to anything odd, too."

Sure enough, a low wail pierced the door, followed by the sound of something being smashed. Jaime flinched, running a quick inventory in his head and wondering if there was anything worth running back in for. "My lord, she'll be fine," said one of the guards in an aside. Jaime looked at him; he was a tall youth, good looking, with kind hazel eyes. He was nearly as tall as Jaime, too.

"Don't get any ideas," he said coldly to him, then turned and all but fled the sound of his wife's grief.

* * *

><p>The wooden lute lay in a thousand splinters on the floor.<p>

Sansa sat in his bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. The tears dripped down her cheeks, but she could hardly feel them. She had to grieve quickly, for she would be punished for crying for a traitor. She wouldn't even be able to wear black, not for her own family.

There would be no funeral, no ceremonies; this was a time of war, and she would be lucky if someone found their bodies and brought them to Winterfell to be buried in the tombs with their ancestors. She made a mental note to have them carved in their likeness anyways...to capture Robb's strong, handsome face, Bran's kind eyes, Rickon's mischievous smile. She stifled another sob, trying to control herself.

Servants moved quietly in and out of the room. Jaime had told her the bare minimum, she soon discovered. The maids told her more, when she asked them. He had died the night before, at their own uncle's wedding at the Freys'. Robb and her mother...and Bran and Rickon the night before that.

_Robb might have died as the Kingslayer bedded his own sister_, she thought to herself. A few more tears squeezed out from between her lashes. _Why can't I do anything right? Everything I do just backfires on me...if I'd run away in the beginning, I might have seen Bran and Rickon again, before...before..._

But she knew that even if she had fled and by some gift of the gods had made it back to Winterfell unharmed, she would have been slaughtered or raped by Greyjoy's men. If he could kill children like her brothers, he would have no qualms in killing the last Stark girl. Sansa had given up on hoping for Arya's return.

"Mother, you never told me it could be like this," she whispered, trembling with the effort not to throw herself from the window and end it all there. As the last Stark, it was her duty to protect Winterfell. "I know life isn't a story...but you never told me it could be this awful." If she went back to Winterfell, she would bring her lord husband with her, and he would stand as Lord Protector, ruling over it how he wished. Even if she went back, she brought a lion with her.

But was that better or worse than leaving it to the squids, the Greyjoys? _Am I a wife or a Lady of Winterfell_?

"Father, mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon," she cried into her hands. "Lady..."

If she had Lady, things would be so much better. Lady would have protected her from Joffrey, from Cersei and Lord Tywin and Jaime. Lady would have stood between her and the Lannisters, would never have left her at their hands alone like her family did.

But as the cried their names, she gave them up. She could not cry for them for long, because if the Lannisters noticed her absence, then she would be suspect. She could not cry for her traitor family.

"My lady?" murmured a soft voice, and the sweet faced Fae edged into the room. Her eyes were wide and concerned, but all Sansa could see was Lannister red.

"_Get out_!" she screamed, nearly leaping from the bed. Fae jumped a foot in the air and dashed from the room, leaving Sansa tense and breathless in the red covers. It had grown quite dark out, and she still had yet to see Jaime. She was very glad he'd left her to herself for the night. She had regretted coaxing such a reaction out of him earlier, had tried to stop him when he pushed her into the wall, but he was deaf to her cries.

She still shuddered when she thought about it. _He pushed me to the floor and mounted me like...like a _dog_! _The thought filled her with disgust. But thinking about that made her only feel guiltier, more like a blood traitor than ever.

"That was not ladylike," she told herself, sitting up and wiping her nose. "I shouldn't have yelled at her." She felt like screaming and crying and hitting someone, but her mother had always told her she was to be a lady one day. And she supposed the best way to pay her respects was to become the lady her mother would have wanted her to be.

* * *

><p>"Tyrion, tell me what to do!" groaned Jaime, rubbing his hand through his short hair. Some of the curls had begun to return, spiraling over his forehead lazily. Jaime would have gone for Cersei for advice, if she had not been part of the problem already. And his younger brother had always been quick of wit and good in these sorts of situations. Tyrion poured them both large goblets of red wine.<p>

"From Dorne, drink up," he told Jaime, handing one to him. Jaime took two long swallows; it burned on the way down, but made him feel a little lighter. He sighed and stared at the bright gold hand they had attached to his wrist; that thing that covered and yet cursed him.

"I wasn't made for this," he muttered, taking another swallow of wine. "I wasn't made for a wife and child. I was made to fight, and look at me now."

"Yes, well, you're a lot better off than me, I'd wager," jested the dwarf, scratching his mangled nose. "I wasn't made for anything purposeful. I was made to offend our lordly father, I suppose." Jaime had to laugh at that, but it turned quickly into a sigh.

"What am I supposed to do? Cersei is angry with me, for whatever reason, and I don't know what to say to my own wife," agonized Jaime, draining the wine. "My own wife...my innocent, naive little wife, who deserves better than me, that much is to be sure. I'm too corrupted for her."

"Jaime, you're a good man," said Tyrion quietly, surveying his brother with his mismatched eyes. "Say what you will, you've done some wrong things and some unforgivable things, and some stupid things to be sure, but your heart has always been in the right place. In some ways, you're more naive than Sansa." Jaime gave him an odd look and laughed. "Laugh if you must brother, but it's true. You've never cared for anything beyond Cersei, never lost anything that meant anything to you...but she's lost everything."

Jaime thought about what Tyrion had said and nodded. "And Cersei?" he asked, waiting for his wiser brother's morsels of advice. But the dwarf just laughed and shrugged.

"To hell with her, I never know what she's angry about. These days, it's so many things I don't bother to keep up anymore." Jaime poured himself another goblet of wine. Tyrion gave him a concerned look. "Should you be drinking so much, brother? I never knew you to be a lover of wine."

"Yes, well, I find myself needing it more and more recently," he said thickly, taking a smaller swallow to appease his brother. "What am I to do with a crying woman, Tyrion? The only grieving I've ever handled was a grieving widow on a battlefield, and it's to warn them away. I never wanted a wife."

"And yet here you stand, with one," said Tyrion firmly. "She's your responsibility now. You can leave her alone all you want during the day, she'll appreciate that, but at night you're going to have to act the husband. If she can do her duty, you can do yours." His voice turned more gentle, kinder for his brother. "Do something for her, something small, that she would like. She doesn't like you, of course not, especially since half of the deaths in her family are accounted to ours, if not all. But she would bear it better if you could give her the chance to like you."

"She won't like me, Tyrion," said Jaime in a low voice. "I...I lost my temper, tonight." He was loathe to admit it, and he could feel Tyrion's green and black eyes boring into him. He could feel the anger and the restraint pouring off of his younger brother, who he knew longed to hit him at that moment. Truth be told, Jaime would not fight back.

"Jaime, listen to me," hissed Tyrion, his eyes narrow. "You control yourself around that girl. I've watched Cersei manipulate her like a dog, I've watched Joffrey use his guards to beat her, and I've watched her build up her walls, to keep everyone out. She'll wall you out too, soon enough, if not already, and then she's lost to you forever. You might have a wife and children, but you'll never have Sansa Stark."

"I don't _want_ her, I just want to bring her back to Winterfell," burst Jaime angrily, but Tyrion was already shaking his head.

"It's too late for that, brother. Father's plans always had a way of giving us the worst of any deals. She's your wife now, whether or not you want her or Cersei or Brienne or whomever. In the laws of gods and men, you're married, and she's yours. Whether or not you want to behave like a husband is entirely up to you, but it could make a great deal of difference for your future. Some promises require more time and effort than others to maintain," he finished, his dark eyes glinting. Jaime had the feeling that Tyrion knew more than he suggested. He stood, chilled, to take his leave. He loved his brother dearly, cripple or not, but sometimes he was frightened by how much he knew.

"I'll bring her something, then," he said, holding out his hand. "Something from the markets, perhaps. Or the underground. Thank you for your advice, brother." Tyrion clasped the offered hand and smiled crookedly.

"Not a problem at all, Jaime. Go try to behave yourself, please."

"And of Cersei?"

"Ah, leave her to stew in her juices. She'll realize how much she needs you soon enough."

Jaime left his brother then, wanting all too badly to spend the evening practicing swordfighting with his left hand, but feeling guilty for leaving Sansa to mourn alone. That had always been his trouble; since he'd been a boy, Jaime had always wanted everything. He had wanted a wife, a home, and sons, but he had wanted the Kingsguard too. He had wanted to sit Casterly Rock, but he wanted to flee to the lands east with his sister, to marry her and live out their lives anonymously. He wanted to die in the field of battle, in a blaze of glory, and to never die at all.

And now he wanted Sansa to smile, Cersei to want him again, to regain his skill with the sword, to leave Winterfell to the wolves...he'd never wanted that icy castle anyways. But so far, nothing was working out the way he liked. That, too, he was used to. But he could take them one at a time, and perhaps something would work out.

He walked back to the enormous doors and threw them open.

There she sat in the center of his bed, finishing braiding her long red hair. Her face was washed, her gown clean and light. There was no sign of whatever she had broken earlier, no sign that anything had happened at all. Her eyes were a bit red, but it was hardly noticeable. She looked up when she heard the doors open, and stood, and curtseyed.

"My lord," she greeted him rather coolly. He stared at her, his mind absolutely boggled. If he had lost his sister, especially to someone who held him captive, he would be tearing his hair and wreaking havoc for weeks. But there the Stark girl stood, her head high and proud and her eyes clear.

"Are you well, Lady Sansa?" he asked her hesitantly. "I know you must be distraught, it's a terrible thing to lose one's family." Her eyes sharpened, and it was all he could do not to step back. But then the moment passed, and she was turning from him gracefully, pulling the covers of the bed straight.

"They were traitors," she said simply, touching her hair again. "I cannot love a traitor to my king. I love King Joffrey." Jaime had to refrain from screaming. Tyrion had been right of course; she had thrown up her Stark walls, and those were tall, cold walls indeed. If ever a lie crossed anyone's lips, it was that of Sansa Stark professing her affection for their king. He stepped forward and touched her shoulder gently, feeling worse when at the immediate flinch.

"Sansa, sit with me," he said tiredly. It was very dark now, far past the time to be sleeping. But if he wanted to share a bed with her, and have her lie comfortably, he must apologize for what he'd done to her before. "Earlier, in the bathing room-"

"Ser Jaime, it is your right as my husband to do what you will," she said firmly, sounding incredibly convincing. But Jaime had not forgotten the blood. "My right as a wife is to demand the safety of your roof and the bread you break. You have provided for me, and it is fair that I provide for you." She sounded as if she were reciting something told by her septa, or her mother, and he strongly suspected that to be truth. She was very good at re-telling what she had been told, and flattering where she should have cried. A duller man might have believed her.

"Just Jaime, if we're in bed together," he told her. "I'm not your master. And it doesn't count if I'm supposed to keep you safe beneath my roof, and wound you myself. And earlier...I don't know what came over me." _Liar...it was a woman, with luscious curves and teasing eyes. _"but it won't happen again. I will not hurt you, physically or otherwise. It isn't knightly."

"Yes, m-Jaime," she murmured, her mouth twisting into a smile but her eyes calling him other names. _Oathbreaker, Oathbreaker, _they whispered. They were large, blue, and trusting, but he knew better than to believe that. He hated being deceived, even under the arms of courtesy. She lied prettily enough, though. His gaze couldn't help but to roam her bare neck and shoulders, left vulnerable by the braid. She was very well developed, for one still young. He was finding himself very drawn to her. Gently, so gently, his left hand touched the side of her neck, brushed her collarbone. He leaned forward to brush his lips across it too.

He felt her stiffen, then. She tried hard not to show it, but it was obvious that if she released herself to her instincts, she would be halfway across the room by now. Sighing, he sat back and surveyed her with resigned green eyes.

"Alright. Let's go to sleep." It was very dark out, with the only lights being that of the moon shining through the window, and the candles on the tables. He stood to put them out.

"Might I go back to my room, Se-Jaime?" she burst suddenly, and he could see that it had taken all of her courage to ask him that. He stared at her, quite tempted to let her go. But he laughed easily and blew out a candle.

"But then I might never get you back, my lady," he half-teased, stripping off his clothes. He would have bet all of Casterly Rock's gold on it; once she was no longer held against her will, he would be seeing significantly less of his courteous little wife. She seemed irritated at his jesting, but she reached back and unlaced her gown anyways. Dropping it to the floor, she sat nervously in a light shift, a nearly shapeless confection that showed her long legs very nicely.

Jaime slid beneath the sheets beside her, reaching out his left arm and pulling her close. She didn't exactly resist, but she did not come easily to him; he ignored her obvious discomfort. _I'm giving her time to recover from...everything. This isn't that much to ask. _Grabbing the hem of her shift, he abruptly pulled it over her head. She couldn't stop the surprised squeak that broke through her cold shields.

Her surprise worsened when he continued to pull her until she was lying on top of him, her head against his chest and her legs draped on either side of his thighs. She flinched, hard, when his hand touched the small of her back, but he did no more than that. Despite her smooth skin against his and the smell of her clean hair, he was exhausted and very content to lie quietly like that.

"Best blanket in the world," he murmured, rubbing her back in long, soothing strokes. She twitched a little, and he could have sworn she had laughed.

* * *

><p>Sansa lay very still, trying not to move a single muscle. Jaime was fast asleep, his deep breaths rising and falling in his chest under her hand and cheek. She dared not move, in case he woke and decided to take his rights. It would have been easy enough; she could feel him against her thigh and, though he was not hard, she knew how quickly that could change.<p>

He had told her that he was not her master, but they were empty words. She couldn't help but to hate and fear him, and he treated her like furniture. He could be kind; that much was true. She knew he had the capacity to be good and gentle. But she had also watched his temper spiral wildly into the air, watched as he changed from controlled to a typhoon of anger or lust. Waiting for the explosion was almost worse than knowing it was coming.

She still wanted his seed to take root, that she might be able to go home; despite all that had happened, she would be open to mourn her brothers if she was away from the king. If she had her own household of people she loved and remembered of her childhood, things might be better. She could ensure the construction of her brothers' tombs.

Perhaps there would be a little bit of Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya, in her children. She might not love the father, but she didn't think she could hate a child.

Still, she was far too sore to even consider mounting him. And she was still trembling with the aftershock of before, when even her cries couldn't stop him. She had never experienced a helplessness like that before, not even at the hands of Joffrey's guards when they would beat her. All the time she would have a fierce dignity, no matter what they did, but here...here he would hurt her where she was most vulnerable.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to make herself incite his passion again.

She probably could have slipped away and made it back to her room. He seemed very deeply asleep, and if he woke then she could say she was merely getting something to eat or drink. But she remembered when she had run from him, and he had pulled and shaken her like a doll; when she had come to him, and he pushed her into a wall and made her bleed. So she lay very still, her fingers touching the wisps of hair on his chest.

Finally, fretfully, Sansa fell asleep.


	9. The Outside World Comes In

Hey guys sorry for any typos in the stories, sometimes I read back over them and I'm like..._what_ was I saying? Anyways, I'm too lazy to change the minor ones so...maybe I'll get around to it. THANK YOU ALL for the reviews! I love a good, in-depth review, but just a little note to tell me if you're following along is great too!

Also, sorry if some of you are bothered by the sexual side of Jaime/Sansa...I felt like the books hit the older/younger couples really accurately for the time period, especially Danaerys and Drogo! Soo, I don't know if it bothers any of you or not...you probably shouldn't read this if it does.

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><p><em>Her green eyes glowed sensually as he laid her down in the king's own bed.<em>

_The great fat fool had fallen asleep on the floor, not even able to make it to the bedchambers. Jaime knew that she had had enough of him, his hard hands and his wandering eyes. Jaime had always had eyes only for her._

_She sighed his name, her slender fingers tangled in his golden curls. Her soft thighs wrapped around his waist, urging him on as he bent his head to kiss her full, heaving breasts. It had only been softness, soft everywhere, her hips beneath his hands, her breasts against his mouth, her belly pressed against his. He pushed up through the golden curls that touched her lower lips, and it was softness inside too. She whispered his name, Jaime, not the king's._

_And his mouth was on hers, his tongue between her lips and his cock between her legs, and it was Jaime and Cersei and Cersei and Jaime, and nothing else mattered but that they were together and in love, and her head tossed in delight and her golden hair blinded him, as bright at the sun, until-_

Jaime woke suddenly, the sun bright in his eyes. It was morning, and he was throbbing with desire from the remnants of a vivid dream. Wondering what had brought it on, he slowly came to his senses and felt that same softness on him now; his lady wife was still fast asleep on top of him, entirely unaware of the raging erection pressed against her thigh.

Holding his breath, he tried to ease the girl off of him, but doing so rubbed her thighs against him, and his hand clenched suddenly on her shoulder. She woke with a gasp, and their eyes met as she quickly caught up to what was happening.

"I...um...I, oh, good morning, my lord," she managed, blushing furiously. She had frozen, not sure what he wanted her to do, and frankly he wasn't sure either. His hands were on her shoulders, both the good and the gold. He had put them there to push her off, but now he found his thumb trailing along her silky smooth skin. Like he had so many times before, he cursed Vargo Hoat for taking his right hand; his left was woefully inadequate, not nearly as dexterous as the right had been. It was often more forceful than he had intended, and he had to constantly remind himself to be careful.

He was careful now, touching his wife lightly. He ran his fingers down her back, her arm, her side, reaching to give her bottom a soft squeeze. He watched her face the entire time, hypnotized by the emotions that flew across her face. Innocence, shame, resentment, timidity, but also defiance, daring, strength, and he could have sworn pleasure. But when he touched her between the legs, all emotions gave way to fear and pain. She was still afraid of him, and he couldn't blame her.

He turned over suddenly, flipping her onto her back and trapping her beneath him. He felt her entire body tense in fear and surprise, but he was already off of her. Moving back, he pushed her thighs open with his hand. She made an indignant noise and tried to snap them shut again, but he sat up and gave her a look, and she let them fall open again meekly.

He'd never looked at women other than Cersei, and he was surprised at the difference. Cersei's curls were golden, like her head, but Sansa's were a very dark red, and not as curly. Her inner lips were a little darker, but delicate and subtle. He leaned forward and kissed them gently.

He heard her gasp, felt her legs move and her hips try to pull away, but he wrapped his left arm around her leg and kept a firm hand on her abdomen, holding her still. His right arm he curled behind her. Struggle as she might, he was still much stronger than her and wasn't particularly concerned with her escape. He kissed her, again and again, heat spreading through his body as he kissed her lower lips as passionately as he'd ever her mouth. His tongue pushed inside to taste the honey she offered him, and his eyes closed in bliss. A throaty hum escaped his lips, and he felt her jerk beneath his mouth.

Every drop of nectar he lapped from her seemed to feed the growing fire within him. Shooting her a warning look, he untangled his left arm from her legs and rubbed himself gently. And, for the first time ever, he didn't have to think about Cersei. He watched his little wife, and for once appreciated her for the beauty she was. Her eyes were closed tightly, a pink flush tinted her from her cheeks to her breasts, her brows knit and her mouth slightly open. Her tiny fists were bunched in the sheets and a light sheen of sweat gave her body a lustrous glimmer.

He watched her slowly lose control, her rich red-brown hair wild about her, her legs flexing on either side of his head, her hands releasing the sheets and flying up to grasp the headboard. Her back arched and his left hand flew up to keep her in place, holding her hip tightly as she bucked. She had been very quiet the entire time, perhaps remembering the first night he bedded her, but as her body neared climax her focus slipped.

_Music_, he thought absently, listening to her gasps and moans. She was fighting him, struggling to get away from the overly intense pleasure, but he refused to let her go. His eyes were only for her when she cried out, and her fingers moved from the headboard to his curls, which had begun to grow back.

"Oh, gods!" she gasped, "Jaime! _Jaaaaime_!" He lunged up, then, when he could hold it no longer and plunged into her, thrusting a few times before finishing inside her. This time, instead of withdrawing and turning from her, he rested over her, panting, on his forearms. He kissed her, slowly. He could feel her small feet brushing his calves, her belly flat against his. His hand came up and stroked her long, soft hair.

"Was that alright?" he hummed lazily, catlike eyes soft. He could have enchanted anyone there, an angelic halo of golden hair encircling his face.

"I-if it pleases you, my lord," said Sansa quietly. Jaime froze, his hand still dipped in her hair. After all that, after watching her lose her mind to pleasure, her hands in his hair, she _still_ wouldn't let him in? Whenever he pleasured Cersei with his mouth, she would be practically purring with satisfaction, and any wrong he'd done would be gone and forgotten. He just couldn't understand why she was being so resistant to him, why she wouldn't let him apologize and be done with it.

He rolled off of Sansa, trying not to be upset with her. She didn't really react, and he folded his arms under his head, sighing a little. _Some women are flirts on the streets and cold fish in bed,_ he thought bitterly. _I'm not entirely sure that's the worse end of the spectrum..._

"I have a few things I have to do for today," he said curtly, standing and rummaging through his clothes. "Feel free to make a break for Margaery's room."

"Yes, my lord," she said quietly, pulling the blankets to her chest. He pulled on his uniform, black breeches and the mail tunic, a black stag stitched on gold cloth woven into the front. Grabbing his belt, he slung his sword around his hips. He was not proficient by any means with his left hand yet, but it was good to be armed, especially in times such as these. Finally, he swung a long black cape over his shoulders.

"You're not part of the Kingsguard."

He looked up, surprised that she had initiated conversation. But he shrugged and began to pull on his boots. "No, Joffrey released me from the Kingsguard so I could be married, but I'm still a part of the guard. I'm unofficially pretty much still in the Kingsguard, but by title a captain." He was pleased to see her show some interest in the going ons of the court, though he supposed that a well-born lady should know of these things. He waited to see if she had anything else to say, but she had lapsed back into silence.

"Well then, good day, my lady," he said, taking three long strides back to the bed. If she was alarmed, she didn't show it; grabbing her hand, he lifted it and kissed her smallest finger. "I'll see you tonight. If I remember correctly, you still have one night left in my bed." He got a very satisfying blush out of her before turning and leaving the room.

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><p>Sansa waited until he had shut the door behind him to stand on shaky legs. She grabbed one of the beams of the bed to help steady herself. Blushing furiously, she tried to recover; she had not been expecting anything like that, it was something she'd never even heard from gossiping maids!<p>

But it was difficult to enjoy it when all she could focus on were the feelings of betrayal, the helplessness of being pinned down, how she still felt used even though he was clearly attempting to win her over. Sexual prowess meant little to Sansa, if he was only using it to make up for his thousand deficits. She made her way towards the bathroom, to clean herself before daring to venture around the castle.

She washed quickly, already excited to leave the room. Alisoun came to help her dress, and Sansa suspected that she would have come earlier if the guards hadn't said something. She had a knowing smile as she helped lace Sansa into her dress, a lovely red dress with rose-colored lining and white laces. A floral design in light pink worked up from the hem to the bodice. It had been a gift from one of Jaime's cousins on their wedding.

It came with matching tall boots, white with black buttons down the sides. Sansa wore her hair in a loose, elegant knot that brushed her shoulders, much more appropriate for a married woman. _Married..._

She thanked Alisoun and rushed quickly from her room. Two of her personal guard accompanied her, making her feel a little safer between their armor and sheathed swords. They helped to frighten away people who might try to force her back to Jaime's room; either that, or they had said something.

Regardless, she made it easily enough to Margaery's room.

Bursting into the Maidenvault, she was greeted by joyful cries and a rushing of skirts as Margaery and all of her cousins rushed to see her. They had been lounging in the early hours of the morning, nibbling cakes and sipping wine, waiting for it to get warm enough to ride or hawk. Sansa had spent enough time with them to generally know their morning habits.

"Sansa! Oh, you look so well!"

"I'm so terribly sorry for your brothers!"

"You look lovely!"

Bursts of talk and laughter and apologies barraged her until Margaery pushed her way through her cousins with an air of firm superiority. They backed down quickly enough, allowing their eldest to hug Sansa tenderly.

"Are you okay? Is everything okay?" asked Margaery seriously, her brown eyes large and sympathetic. Sansa knew from her voice that she was referring to absolutely everything, not just her brothers.

"I...yes, I'm alright," she said quietly. "and it's not..._awful_..."

"Oh, are you talking about Ser Jaime?" burst Megga, leaping from one of the cushions and bounding towards them. Two other cousins broke off too and came loping over. "That's not fair, I want to hear, too!"

"Megga thinks Ser Jaime is very gallant," Margaery informed Sansa, rolling her eyes.

"The handsomest knight in the _kingdom_!" sighed the young girl. Sansa's eyebrows rose; Megga was even younger than she! But she supposed he was handsome for an older man; she'd always preferred the slender, romantic figures of younger men, boys like Ser Loras and Joffrey, once upon a time. Ser Jaime had a handsome face, but his broad shoulders and long legs had always intimidated Sansa rather than attracted her. Boys like Joffrey, she could stand up to; big men like Sandor Clegane, she was at their mercy.

"What was it like?" asked Alla in a hushed voice, her eyes glittering mischievously. Sansa's mouth hung open for a moment before she flushed deeply.

"Oh, leave her be, she doesn't have to tell if she doesn't want to!" insisted Margaery, but Sansa saw the hungry curiosity in the future queen's eyes; her wedding, too, was coming up soon, and Sansa knew she must be dying to hear.

"Sansa, dearest Sansa, lovely, _kind_ Sansa!"

"Oh please, _please_! Tell us what it's like to be married!"

"Well, it's..." she began, and memories of the night on the floor of the bathing room flashed through her mind, but she was too ashamed to share that particular story with them. She thought of earlier that morning, but that still made her tingle with shame and embarrassment. Her first bedding should be a good, fairly plain story for them. She couldn't resist gossiping with these attentive girls; it had been so long before Margaery that she'd had other girls to talk with.

"He was very good," she whispered, to the giggles of the girls around her. "He's not very chivalrous, and he teases me far too much to really like him, but...he's very...skilled."

"What did he do?" asked Margaery now, her eyes large.

"It hurt a lot, at first," admitted Sansa, still wincing at the memories of the sharp, unrelenting pain. "But he put my feet up on his shoulders, and it was rather nice. He didn't touch me very much, but he kissed me quite a bit, I enjoyed that part." She smiled shyly as the girls sighed, their eyes soft and limpid.

"No hiding anything, Sansa!" scolded Elinor, her smile coy. "There has to be more to the Lion of Lannister than that!"

"Elinor, that's quite enough," said Margaery, coming to Sansa's defense despite her own raging curiosity. "Come, girls, let's go riding!"

They all gathered their skirts and began the walk to the stables, laughing and jesting along the way. To Sansa's embarrassment, she saw Redrick among the singers who joined them for the outing. He did not say anything to her right away, of which she was glad. Alla had her arm anyways, and was confiding about a secret admirer who would bring her strawberry tarts in the morning.

They approached the stables, a group of nearly twenty. The stableboys all leapt up and began rushing out the horses. Margaery's fine white mare, Alla's chestnut, Megga's bay gelding...one at a time, they hurried out the small herd. Sansa waited for her own, a dark bay mare from Winterfell's stables; not a particularly fine horse, but a good one all the same.

The stableboy led out a glossy black mare, with a fine arched neck and a delicate face. The girls quieted, admiring the lovely creature.

"Lady Sansa Lannister," said the young boy, handing the handsome silver bridle to her. Sansa took it, open-mouthed. It was the first time she had officially been referred to as Lady Lannister, and it chilled her terribly, but the beauty of the horse she held was astounding. A name was carved into the side of the bridle; she looked closer, and it said 'Lady.'

Sansa's hand tightened on the reins, her heart pounding. She tried not to think too hard, but instead thrust her foot into the stirrup and lifted herself onto the horse. Lady tossed her head and trotted spiritedly after the caravan; she was an energetic young thing, and her jet black mane almost floated on the cool breeze. Her saddle matched the bridle, a soft leathery silver, with a white blanket beneath that draped over Lady's sides elegantly. Sansa had rarely felt so fine.

She felt like a fairy, on this light, fast mount. Sansa had never understood Arya's love of horses and riding until that very moment, in the autumn wind on Lady.

Alla and Elinor had brought their hawks, and the two birds spiraled high over them, diving at the ground occasionally. Margaery's little dog ran barking ahead of the group, and the singers kept up a constant stream of music. Sansa had not had so pleasant a time since before her wedding.

"I see you have a new horse," called a voice to her right. Sansa turned and saw Redrick. She managed a smile and patted Lady's neck.

"Yes, she's lovely, isn't she," she laughed, stroking her horse's soft mane. Redrick shrugged and turned his face away.

"She's alright, I guess. I just didn't think she matched you very well," he said, rather unpleasantly she thought. Sansa felt a little hurt. It was the loveliest horse she'd ever seen, was he insulting her? "You're such a warm, bright person. A fire red, perhaps, or a soft summer brown." She laughed, giving Lady a little kick and loving the immediate gallop.

"Clearly, you don't know what it means to be a Stark!" she called over her shoulder, spurring her horse on. Like the wind, Lady flew over the hills, faster than any left in the caravan behind her. She urged her on, bending low over the dark, lustrous neck, Lady's long mane whipping her eyes. She knew where the roads led, recognized the path from long ago when she and Jeyne Poole had gone to watch the tournaments.

She saw the grand tournament fields, and raced towards it. It was almost entirely empty, she knew.

But she knew he'd be there.

Sure enough, she saw him practicing with Ser Ilyn Payne, the metallic sheen of their swords reflecting blinding bursts of sun. She rode closer, despite how she hated Ser Payne. Lady stayed obedient, quiet, when they reached the field, and Sansa dismounted to wait for them to finish.

It was hard, watching Ser Jaime swordfight with his off hand. He mostly tried to defend himself against Payne's heavy-handed blows, his own skill diminished by having to re-learn how to use a sword backwards. Sansa knew he had once been an incredible swordsman; she had heard stories of his prowess since she had been a very young girl in Winterfell. Watching him now, fighting his handicap with pure skill and talent, was difficult, knowing what he had once been. It wasn't enough; Ser Payne knocked his sword aside and laid the point at her husband's throat. Sansa's heart burst with deja vu, and she couldn't help but to cry out.

"Ser Payne!" she called, glad to hear her voice come out strong and steady. They both looked over, very surprised to see her there. Jaime straightened and cleared his throat. Ilyn Payne slowly lowered the long, deadly sharp sword. "Do you mind if I borrow my husband for a moment?" The terrifying man nodded once, and then turned to hack at a wooden practice dummy. Chips flew here and there as he swung repeatedly. Jaime loped over to her, sheathing his sword as he came. She couldn't quite read his expression, but he quickly settled on amused; it seemed to be his default for when he didn't yet know how to handle things.

"My my, I leave you to yourself and you just follow me around," he teased, stopping to eye the black mare. "I see you got your horse."

Sansa didn't say anything, but slowly, shyly put her arms around his chest. She hugged him to her, her cheek pressed tight against him. He went silent, startled, and then she felt his arms wrap around her shoulders.

"You weren't there," she murmured into his tunic. "How did you know?" She felt him shrug.

"Robert mentioned it to me, once. I remember thinking it was an awful thing to do. How do you like her?" She laughed, and suddenly his heart quickened.

"She's lovely."

"I told them not to give her to you yet...I was going to take you riding tomorrow," he said sorrowfully, resting his chin on the top of her head. Sansa couldn't help feeling a little touched. She looked around, for his golden charger.

"Where's your horse?" she asked, wondering if they could go riding now. Ser Payne would not mind; he never minded. Jaime sighed though, and withdrew.

"He's back at the castle. Ser Payne and I walked down here. We're just practicing," he said mildly, but her eyes lingered on the dark bruise forming on his upper arm. "Would you like to give it a try?" She almost smiled; she couldn't tell if he was teasing her, but she reached forward and grasped the hilt of the sword and drew it, very carefully. It was heavier than she had expected, and she nearly dropped it at first. "Woah! Little wife, Ilyn Payne does enough of that without your help!" he gasped, having jumped out of the way of the swinging sword.

Sansa smiled a little. The sword made her think of Arya; she knew her little sister would have loved this sort of thing. Sansa had never been entirely sure that Arya _didn't_ have a sword of her own, anyways. She hefted it into both hands, but it was much too large for her; her arms trembled under the weight. Regretfully, she handed it back to Jaime.

"If you want a sword, we'd need to find you one that's a little lighter," he laughed easily, swinging the sword in one hand. Sansa had always light light, lithe boys, but something about the rippling muscles of his arms drew her eyes now.

"You're very strong," she observed. The sword that had been too much for both of her arms spun lazily in his one left. She could only imagine the power behind his right-handed blows. He laughed, then sheathed the sword. He ran up to her and ducked, swooping beneath her with his left arm, scooping her easily off of the ground with one hand. She squeaked and flung her arms around his neck, in case he dropped her, but he just drew her carefully to his chest. His golden hand helped brace her against him. Sweat dripped from his brow after his practice with Payne, but his smile was bright.

She leaned forward tentatively, her hands like butterflies on either side of his face. Her lips touched his gently, hardly there at all, but his eyes closed and he breathed in deeply. They opened again, lustrous green and filled with desire. He let her touch him though, let her wipe the drops from his brow, run her fingers through his hair. His hair was hot with the breath of the sun, and equally as bright gold. But she remembered when she lost control to him, how frightening it had been. She sat back, managing a smile.

"I fear I've grown weary, my lord," she told him, not even convincing herself. But he seemed glad for the excuse to return, and turned to Ilyn Payne.

"Do you mind if I ride up with my lady?" he called, and the mute gave him a half shrug, then returned to chopping at the practice dummy. "I'll take that as a yes...come, Sansa, we can ride Lady up."

"Can she carry us both?" asked Sansa, eying Jaime and then her long-legged mare. Jaime laughed and swung into her saddle.

"Of course she can. I wouldn't have bought her if she was a frail little thing. Now come on, hop up." He scooted back and patted his thighs. The saddle was only meant for single riding, but it was rather long, and would fit two if she sat in his lap. She stepped forward and thrust her foot in the stirrup, letting Jaime lift her to the saddle so she wouldn't kick him on the way up. He gave Lady the lightest of nudges, and the mare cantered as lightly as she ever did before.

Sansa delighted in the breeze, and the pleasure of the ride, but the motion of the canter incited a rather provocative sway of his and her hips, and though he was not hard at all she felt a chill run up her spine; then a lick of fire. She bit her lips against the raw contact, at first fighting the motion, but that only made it worse. Her face felt as if it were burning, as well as her hands and her belly, though it was a very cool day.

By the time they reached the castle, she was fairly squirming, and once they stopped she instantly slid from the horse. She smoothed her red and pink silks down, taking a few deep breaths. The stableboy came to pick up her horse, and she cast it one more admiring glance before she was taken in.

"I'm sure lady Margaery is looking for me," she murmured, curtsying. "I had better go find her, my lord." He touched her face, his thumb beneath her chin, and tilted it up. He was kissing her lightly before she knew it, and it did nothing to help the fire glowing tortuously in her. But his glowing green eyes simply captivated her.

"I have to meet with my father, and Cersei," he said, drawing back. He smiled, his eyes teasing again. "I'll have a word with the smith and see if we can't get you a little sword made."

Sansa shook her head; she didn't particularly like swords, because they were a symbol of close and deadly combat. "I'd rather have a new lute, my lord, if it please you."

He smiled and touched her lips with his thumb. "It does."

* * *

><p>"What's so important, father, that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?" snarled Cersei, her hands on her hips. Jaime closed the door quietly behind him as he walked into his father's study. Cersei cast him one scathing look before returning her attention to Lord Tywin.<p>

"It's just so much work, lording over King Joff's shoulder," drawled Jaime, stepping forward. "You really should take a break sometime, sweet sister." Cersei looked as if she could have slapped him, but merely folded her arms over her full breasts.

"Stop squabbling, you two. Gods, I never thought I'd say that," grumbled Lord Tywin. "But there's been some distressing news."

"Father, I have a wedding to finish planning," growled Cersei, but Lord Tywin raised his hand and she fell silent.

"Stannis's troops are on the move, headed this way. We need to send a force to stop him. Cersei, you're to get this marriage going as quickly as possible. Jaime, you'll be leading the soldiers. You have until tomorrow to get ready."

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><p>Ahhh cliffhanger! Till tomorrow-ish, then! Probably!<p> 


	10. Conflict and Resolution

Okay YES I am aware that, outside of the navy, the rank of captain isn't that high. But I have no idea what ranks knights had in the medieval ages, so I'm trying to give them appropriate-sounding names. And I'm very sure that they didn't have lieutenants and colonels and generals.

Also I'm sorry this is later than usual...not classwork, I just dug up my DS and got kind of distracted..still though, it's been like one day. Y'all can't complain about my posting speed haha

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><p>Sansa knew something was wrong when Jaime returned late that night, his mouth tight and his jaw clenched. Fae had been unlacing her gown as Sansa told her about Elinor's hawk when he had burst through the door, causing both girls to jump. They watched in surprise as he began stripping off his mail.<p>

"Fae, get out," he said shortly, and the girl immediately curtseyed and scurried from the room. Sansa felt her heart hammering in her breast; she hated this fear, when he was angry. Her hands trembled slightly as he pulled the boots from his feet.

"My lord?" she asked quietly, her voice cracking a little. She cleared her throat. "Is something amiss?" He didn't answer her, unlacing his breeches and jerking them down. "Jaime, please," she said more softly, hoping to quench his anger before he had a chance to upend it over her.

But she was far too late. He reached her in a few strides, though she backed away quickly, her eyes wide with fright. His hands were on her, hard and fast, and they ripped the bodice of her beautiful red gown open. She vividly recalled Joffrey using his Kingsguard to do the very same thing, and suddenly she was fighting him, pulling back and pushing his hand away. She dodged him, running for the door.

But he caught her before she reached the door, quickly tearing the rest of the dress off of her. Sansa would have screamed, but then he was in front of her, his mouth on hers. She fought him, pushed at him, but her fists were feathers against his arms. He yanked the long pins from her hair, and it tumbled around her like a waterfall.

She was overrun with terror, memories of Joffrey's abuse flooding her until she was struggling violently to get away. But he would not let her go, and this time her fingers curled into a fist. Half crazed with something she couldn't understand, he never saw it coming.

Sansa had never hit anything so hard. She cried out, clutching her hand to her chest. Jaime had stumbled two steps back; she hadn't exactly floored him, but if his pained expression and his hand over his face said anything, he'd have a handsome black eye in the morning. But when he lowered his hand, the pained expression left, and the she saw a glint of the murderous rage constantly boiling beneath the surface of Jaime Lannister. His good hand curled into a fist, and she lost her breath when he began advancing on her.

"Stop! Stop!" she screamed, raising her hands fearfully. When he did not slow, she turned and ran into the far left door of his room. Dashing inside, she cast her eyes around Jaime's personal armory. She did not bother to close it, she knew there was no bar; but running up to the wall, she tore down the smallest sword.

It was still too heavy for her to hold in one hand. But she grasped it tightly in both fists and turned to face him. When he walked in and saw her, his brows raised in surprise and with a dark chuckle, he drew his own sword. He did not attack her, though, but stayed between her and the door.

"Are you insane?" he snarled, and Sansa nearly laughed. There they stood, she entirely naked but for her white boots and he not even that, holding swords to each other. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Suddenly filled with rage, Sansa rushed towards him and swung her sword at his stupid, fat head. He deflected it easily, and then another strike from the side.

"_Me_!" she screamed, swinging it again. The clashing sound of the metal, the off chance of wounding him mortally, was positively delightful. "What's wrong with _you_! I never know if you're going to kiss or hit me! I feel like a damned _dog_, just hoping you come back feeling like being the gallant! _It's like being with Joffrey again_!" It felt good to finally yell that at him, like she'd been longing to do for days.

"And if I _am_ gallant?" he barked, blocking another two blows. "You're terrible to me! I haven't even done anything! For gods' sake, I fought alongside your _father_!"

"And tried to kill my _brother_!" She felt viciously gleeful when her comment distracted him enough to leave him open. Her sword cut a long gash in his arm. He hissed and raised his defense, eyes narrow. She was half afraid he'd get aggressive, half wanting him to.

"It's war, girl, I don't get to choose where I go. But yes, I would have killed him if the chance arose." He was trying to disarm her without striking her, she could tell, but she kept a firm grip on her sword.

"You're a monster," she spat, her eyes full of loathing. Furious, Jaime tested her with a few fierce strikes of his own; she managed to deflect them, but she was breathless and wide-eyed. They circled, swords raised in front of them. Sansa wondered how many people had died like this, touching swords with Jaime Lannister.

"Yes, I'm a _monster_," he said forcefully, striking again. "How monstrous of me, to defend my country and my _king_, my _men_, the unarmed and helpless...how monstrous, for me to do my best to get you home!" He accompanied his angry words with blows of the sword, and by the last one Sansa was sweating hard. But, when he finished, she threw her sword aside. The look in her eyes sent a bolt of sudden fear through him.

"By _fucking me_?" she shrieked, her hands curling into claws. Before Jaime could think twice, she launched herself at him.

To her credit, she certainly did not bite or scratch. But he found himself slowly being overpowered as she aimed _straight_ for the bruises gifted on him by Ser Payne. Her tiny fists concentrated her weight very effectively, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as she hit her large, violet targets dead on. His hands flew up as he attempted to pacify her, all thoughts of his own anger gone.

"You're going to make me _think_," she bit out, her fist shooting into his side, "that you're doing me a _favor_," Jaime was backed into a wall, "_by fucking me_?"

With no options left, he threw his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides so he could catch his breath. He gasped as she kicked and struggled, still cursing and snarling.

"_Get off of me_! Get _off_, hee hee, oh get off of me! Ah-hahaha!" her yelling was suddenly punctuated with bursts of laughter. Jaime, too, found himself smiling, and then unable to contain his own laughter. She jerked herself back, and he was knocked off balance, and then they were both on the ground in his personal armory, laughing too hard to get up.

"Oh, I _know_ I'm doing you a favor, fucking you," teased Jaime, his eyes bright. He rolled onto his side, his head propped up on his hand. "By the way, my little lady, when did your language get so very charming?" He was still shaking with laughter. Sansa's eyes closed as she tried to stifle her own giggling.

"Oh, I picked up a few pretty little phrases here and there. Sometimes from our sweet-mouthed Queen, sometimes from good King Joffrey. Not Margaery, though. She thinks ladies should all have the loveliest mouths," smiled Sansa, mimicking Margaery's lilting tone a little bit. "She'd have loved to meet Arya..."

"Most holy Saint Margaery, you mean?" corrected Jaime, unable to hold back his mirth. "You know I braided her hair for her once. I lost a lock, said 'butternuggets,' and she exiled me for a week." Sansa burst into laughter and smacked his arm.

"Don't! Oh, don't!" she gasped, trying not to laugh. "That's mean, don't tease like that! She's the sweetest girl!" But neither could stop their laughter for a long time. Finally, when they were sore from it and laying nearly quietly, Sansa sighed and smiled. "You're funny, you know. My brother Jon was funny too, kind of like you." Though she'd never referred to Jon as her brother, she did now; perhaps because he was the closest thing to a brother she had left.

"Oh, good, I was afraid you were immune for a while," admitted Jaime, grinning widely. Sansa noticed two small gaps between his front teeth and his incisors; she was startled to find how much it charmed her, this little flaw. Perhaps because it was the only natural flaw she'd ever seen on Jaime Lannister's person (not including his missing hand, of course). "I must admit, my feelings were hurt a little when you compared me to Joffrey. Surely I'm not that bad, am I?" He looked very sad at that, but Sansa couldn't lie to him. She took a deep, calm breath and sighed again. Reaching forward, she touched the golden fingers of his right hand.

"Sometimes," she said quietly, her eyes flitting up to catch his reaction. He looked down, but didn't look particularly angry, and so she felt brave enough to go on. "I was serious, Jaime. You really frighten me sometimes. It's...it's as bad as Joffrey, when you're mad." Her hand touched his arm though, trying to comfort him. "But when you're kind, you're so wonderful. When you're being kind, I can't imagine how you're related to-" she stopped suddenly, realizing that she was coming very close to insulting his family. She bowed her head before she could say anything else.

"You know, the singers love stories about great war heroes who kill their own wives," said Jaime slowly, a sad smile pulling at his lips. "They say often the passion of the battlefield overpowers the passion of the bed. I've defended women from rapers...but it's harder, when it's you," he said quietly. "When I was young, with C-the first girl I loved, I was sweet. I believed in romance and gallantry. But after I left for war...how do you stay the same, when you see children and grandmothers being raped, you watch as a captain sets fire to living babes, and then stomping them out?" he asked her desperately. She saw the haunted look, the suffering of his dreams. She touched his face, but he turned it towards the ceiling. "How do you not turn inside and let a little part of yourself die?

"So I died a little. My love of the world, my faith in chivalry and nobility, all of it was gone. I became selfish, because I was terrified to lose everything, as I'd seen everyone else do in the world. I lost the girl I loved. She turned from me, slowly, but more every day. I'm not meant for wives and babies; I've been meant for the battlefield since the first day I picked up a sword."

"Well then," said Sansa, smiling a little. "I guess she didn't love you so very truly, after all."

He turned and gave her a very sharp glare. Sansa jumped a little, but it was his quiet tone that startled her the most.

"There was no love like that in the world," he said, with such conviction that Sansa had little to do but believe him. She lowered her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean that. I'm sure she was wonderful." She could see this mystery woman of her husband's past, tall and buxom.

"No, you're right, in a way," he sighed, his expression wistful. "There _was_ no love like that anywhere else...but love dies, just like any person. It died, and something beautiful turned into something ugly. Not her, though, of course. She's has lovely as ever."

"You still see her?" asked Sansa, bursting with curiosity. But Jaime had elected to share a piece of himself with her, broken bits of dreams, and she didn't want to ask too much of him. He humored her, though, and shrugged.

"Yes and no," he said, thinking about it. "I see her every night, in my dreams. I see what she became every day."

"So," struggled Sansa, trying not to feel anything, "you still love her, then?"

He didn't answer her right away. His eyes met hers, and he was gauging something from what he saw. His expression was serious, troubled. But then, abruptly, he smiled.

"No," he lied. Standing and lifting her, he carried her lithe form to the bed. She laughed as he dumped her unceremoniously onto the thick blankets before diving after her. In some ways, it was more of their first time than the actual night of their wedding; Sansa was all parts the shy, sweet maid, and Jaime felt a lazy warmth about him.

"We should have had a swordfight _days _ago," he groaned into her mouth as she kissed him. She giggled, her hand coming up to smack his arm. "Oh ow, _ow_, mind the bruises!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," gasped Sansa, remembering how viciously she had punched them. Feeling guilty, she lifted his arm and kissed it gently. Her eyes flitted back to his face mischievously. "Better?"

"Yes, that's perfect. But see, here, you're neglecting the bruises all over my face and neck," he complained with half a smile. "I must demand you get back up here immediately." She blushed shyly before meeting his lips again.

His kiss deepened, and she could feel him beginning to move against her. Suddenly, she broke off and wiggled back. "Wait, wait, my boots are still on!" she panted, reaching down to unlace them. He pushed her back, his mouth moving to her breasts.

"No, leave them on," he mumbled into her, kissing and biting them gently. She laughed at the ridiculousness, but gave in easily enough. His arms wrapped around her tightly, half lifting her off the bed. His mouth moved over her breasts, to her slender neck, and back to her mouth. His hunger excited her now, rather than making her fearful. Her legs wrapped around his waist tightly.

He'd never understood the appeal of slow, romantic sex. Anything he'd ever done with Cersei had been fast and fierce, and he had never been interested in the babbling of the married men who had described nights with their wives. As a warrior, everything he'd _ever_ done had been fast and fierce.

But now, as he thrust himself in her, he felt no rush whatsoever. He felt as if he had all the time in the world. And so he filled it with soft, slow kisses, his eyes closed so he could experience the feel and smell and taste of her to its fullest. His hand played in her hair, bathed in the silky sea of mahogany.

They moved together for what felt like an eternity, and her sweet purring drove him wild with desire. He couldn't hold himself back for very long, and neither could she. They lit the night with the sounds of their lovemaking. Again and again, he returned to her, until it was so dark they couldn't see anymore.

Afterwards, he lay quiet, enjoying the warmth of the girl at his side and the soft songs of the heightening evening. He was sore all over, but not in such a bad way. They waited together for the approach of sleep.

"Why were you angry, Jaime?" asked Sansa suddenly, her voice sleepy. "From before, I mean. When you'd first come in."

"...I'm leaving in three days for the Kingsroad."

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><p>"We'll leave Kings Landing and cut Stannis off at the border, between the Kings Road and the Neck," said Jaime, dragging his finger down the map. The minor captains crowded around him, nodding or commenting quietly to each other. "It's a wide border to hold, to be sure, but if we funnel them between the rivers, it should be easier to control. Captain Erris and Captain Morde, your companies will border the wide flange of the river, there. You'll funnel them to me, in the center. Captain Silverstalk, your battalion will be behind mine, in the very nook of the river, to provide support to whichever side needs it."<p>

The captains did a good job of pretending not to notice the dark bruise under Jaime's eye, as well as the bruises on his arms. Which was just as well, of course, as he'd rather they would pay attention to the map.

"And what of me?" asked the youngest Captain, a fresh young man of House Tyrell. Their lord had praised his leadership constantly, and Jaime only hoped that they hadn't been empty words. Still, he had given the man a relatively easy job.

"Backup," said Jaime firmly, pointing to the root of the river, where the two rivers joined together. "You'll be down here, maybe a little farther. If we need help, we'll send a fast boat down the river, and you'll be ready to go." The young captain looked as if he didn't know whether to be offended or not, but he settled on compliant. To be fair, it was his first time fighting as a captain, and so he backed down to the more experienced soldiers.

"It's a fair plan, albeit almost predictable," said Captain Morde, scratching his curling black beard. "That may be a problem."

"It's predictable, but there isn't much Stannis can do about it," explained Jaimie, tapping the rivers. "Stannis needs the rivers if he wants to get to King's landing while it's unprepared, and the only way he'd beat us downriver is by slipping through the Cape of the Eagles on the west coast, and that will only funnel his entire force."

"Oh, good knights, how very brave you all are!" called a high, musical voice. Jaime looked up to see his sister sauntering in, her smile generous and irresistible all at once. They all stared, transfixed by the beauty of the queen.

"Your Grace," said Jaime quietly, his eyes burning as she touched the young Tyrell captain's arm. Jaime seethed with resentment; the Tyrell pup was shorter than he, less comely, and nowhere near as well muscled. But, then again, he _did_ have two hands, and could probably knock Jaime out quite easily in a fight for that. Jaime let out his breath and turned away. "How good of you to attend our meeting."

"Yes, well, what is the duty of the queen if not to ensure her people are safe in times of chaos?" she laughed, a lovely sound. The Tyrell boy looked nearly overwhelmed by her, his eyes large and glossy. "Now, tell me, which of my court are you taking with you?"

"These four here, Morde, Silverstalk, Erris, and Tyrell," he said, gesturing to them. He'd fought with Morde and Silverstalk before, Morde was a Lannister man who had been fighting since the war of the Nine Penny kings, and Silverstalk had been one of Stark's men until his loyalty was called to question, and he stayed with the Baratheons. Erris he didn't know well personally, but his prowess as a leader was legendary among the men; he was also a tall, almost frightfully strong man. The Tyrell had been an adamant suggestion of his House, probably to give the Tyrells a chance to prove themselves in battle.

"I also want Loras, at least one of the Osfreys, Clegane, and Payne," he listed. She was already shaking her head.

"No, no, no! You're taking away half of my son's Kingsguard!" she said adamantly, her hands on her hips. Jaime dragged his eyes back to her angry face, stifling memories of when _his_ hands had once been there. "Not the Osfreys, Clegane, or Payne! You can have the Tyrell pup," she said carelessly. The young captain's eyes narrowed resentfully, but he didn't dare pull away from his queen. Jaime pressed a hand to his brow.

"Your son won't _need_ a Kingsguard when Stannis cuts off his head," he said pointedly, knowing how to hit her where it hurt. And, as predictably as ever, she shook with fear, anger, and shock. She quite removed herself from the young man, trembling with emotion.

"Fine. But not Clegane," she said firmly, her long hair swinging behind her. He couldn't tear his gaze from the sway of her body as she walked away. But she turned back, smirking when she caught his stare. "Oh, and you should take care of those unsightly bruises," she said scathingly. "You're starting to look common."

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><p>Sansa lay on a rose-colored cushion in Margaery's maidenvault, twirling a ribbon in her hand. Her dress was new, a deep green dress with ruby roses at her waist. Since her marriage, Sansa had found herself in the possession of significantly more clothes; Jaime was under the belief that his wife should not be bereft, and so had provided generously for her own tailor and seamstress, as well as any materials they needed. Sansa highly enjoyed being able to help design her own clothes, and had taken to sketching some of her preferences out.<p>

Her newest one was a deep Tully blue, with many cream ribbons on the sleeves, back, and sides. The sleeves were gossamer, and of the most fragile baby blue.

"I see you've taken up a new hobby," said Redrick, tuning his lyre. He plucked at the strings, each wavering note hitting the air like a drop of rain. "One besides riding, I mean."

"Yes, well, I find myself with little to do on these long days," she said mildly, smiling a little. The queen had stopped inviting her to rides and tournaments with her, and so she was free to do what she liked, or attend the events with Elinor and Megga. Joffrey had left her alone for a long time; not since her wedding had he laid a hand on her, though she could do little against the dirty things he'd hiss at her as he passed.

"You could come spend them with me," he smiled, strumming at the lyre. He picked out a dark, romantic tune. "It's much easier to write songs about your eyes when I can see them you know." Sansa laughed, sketching out a lace design for her gloves.

"How is your family, in the Vale?" she asked him, and his expression brightened.

"One of my sisters is to be wed," he said, strumming a happy gait. "I'm leaving King's Landing, eventually, to give her husband her hand. He's quite poor though, so we're waiting until he finishes his apprenticeship and sets up a shop of his own. My other sister is quite set against getting married. She loves her hawks more than she's ever loved a boy."

"Reminds me of my little sister," laughed Sansa, thinking about Arya's stubborn, grubby face. "Except Arya loved horses. Riding does remind me of her." It was true; Sansa hardly felt closer to Arya than when she rode Lady. But she had already given up on her little sister. So many people were dying that unattended girls had no chance whatsoever, and it had been ages since Sansa had heard of her. "Are you playing at Margaery's wedding, then?"

"Yes, I wanted to stay for that," said Redrick, leaning back into the chair. "I came to Margaery because I had heard of her sweetness and generosity, and it's why I stayed, too, though not for money anymore. I love singing for her and her cousins, they're a wonderful audience. I could never resist sweet girls." Then suddenly he leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees. "Especially you, Lady Sansa. Your voice is awfully cold, but I can tell you're sweet inside. I see it, too."

Sansa smiled, but did not reply. She didn't like to encourage Redrick's flirting anymore, having lost her infatuation with singers and performers. They were sweet of tongue, but she knew what they pursued, and she was sure that his songs were not of her eyes.

"Oh, what they've done to you, my winter rose," he sighed, reaching to touch her hand. "You were meant to be free, to belong to no man, I can see it now. You should be running wild with your hair loose about you, with the arms of nature at your breast."

"Not yours?" she couldn't help shooting back, almost coldly. "My, how very virtuous of you." He smiled sheepishly.

"Sansa, darling, you know I'll always love you," he cooed to her, squeezing her hand between his. "You shouldn't believe me so impure, it makes me sad. I love you like Jonquil loved Florent, like the knight who loves the maid, like the burning sun loves the moon."

"You're not a knight," she teased, removing her hand from his. He laughed at that.

"Neither are you a maid, my lady!" he retorted, and she couldn't help but to smile.

"Yes, I don't know why she hangs about the _Maiden_vault," called Elinor, who had just woken up. She giggled when Sansa threw a pillow at her.

"Someone has to keep you wanton girls under control!" replied Sansa, throwing another cushion.

"Oh, so _we're_ wanton?" cried another voice, Alla who had just returned arm-in-arm with Megga. "I seem to recall some minor event that happened nigh half a fortnight ago. It went something like...Jaime! _Jaime_! _Jaimeee_!" Alla mimicked Sansa quite well, and blushing from head to toe, Sansa held a third cushion threateningly high.

"As if you're one to talk!" called Elinor laughingly, coming to Sansa's aid. "And those strawberry tarts, they're just walking themselves to your room? Is your little lover getting some sweetness for his sweets?"

"Speaking of sweets," said Sansa, "what are they serving at Margaery's wedding?" The royal wedding was approaching fast, since Queen Cersei wanted to hammer down the alliance before Stannis could make it to King's Landing. She was sad that Jaime would be leaving for the Neck before, as she had been looking forward to dancing with him again.

"I hate to interrupt," called a voice from the door. "But I'd like to steal my lady wife away for a moment."

Sansa turned and saw Jaime standing, in his black and gold mail and cape, looking for all the world like a warrior angel. His golden hair curled lazily around his neck and ears, and his smile was only for her. Sansa wondered how she'd ever thought him old.

"O-of course, Ser Jaime," sighed Alla, touching her hair self-consciously. "She's all yours!"

Sansa ignored the looks she knew would be flying about behind her, and rose to take his hand. "Where are we going?" she whispered to him as he led her away. "Don't you have work to do?" She knew he was leaving very soon, and a lot of planning had to be done before then.

"I'm skipping, I've been working all day," he complained. "I'm uncle to the king, it's my right to blow off 'things.'" She laughed at that, her hand tucked neatly in his arm. She was glad she'd worn her lovely new dress that day. "We're going for a ride, goddamn it."

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><p>No. That was not an innuendo. Pervs...<p>

till next time, then! Maybe tomorrow!


	11. Questions

Aww, so many new reviews! And I'm so sorry, I wasn't picking on you (you know who you are) about complaining! I promise, I love my readers haha, I was just teasing all of you!

I also got a few comments on the fight...I know, I know it's too short a scene. I typed it up really fast and didn't do too much looking back, I'll consider editing it a little bit. Thanks for the comments, though, I always appreciate anything you have to say about the story!

Also, I'm SO SORRY this chapter took so long...but it's gonna be a little while before I can get them up as regularly as I did before. Exam week and all, and graduation coming up. I sorry!

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><p>It was like something from her dreams, riding with Jaime. They looked the part, she knew at least. Her hair had come undone as they galloped, and was flying behind her in ripples of rich, earthy red. Her dress was something like that of a forest fairy, all green and gold and buttoned with dark red ruby roses. Even the gold and red leaves of autumn were like from a fantasy, swirling in the crisp breeze. Lady was decked out to match, with a long, green blanket vivid against her black haunches. Her bridle and reins were long, green, and tasseled.<p>

Jaime was no less awesome, in black and gold chain mail. The cape he had elected to wear was a buttery gold, and it flew out behind him as he rode. His hair flew back from his face, as gleaming bright as the sun above them. His charger was a tall stallion, his hair a fantastic shade of dark, burnished gold. The flaxen mane and tail wafted behind him like banners.

They rode through the forest, along a dirt path pounded smooth by hundreds of years' worth of courtly rides. They didn't speak; the loveliness of the setting was too much to spoil with words.

"She's fast, isn't she?" burst Jaime suddenly, smiling. Sansa scowled.

"You're ruining it!" she yelled back, her horse starting a little. The jolt dislodged Sansa, who wobbled precariously before recovering her seat. Well, _now_ it was ruined.

"What? What am I ruining?" he asked her, clearly trying not to smile. She huffed, her chin high and proud.

"Nothing! Never mind it!" she said irritably, wishing he wouldn't tease her so. But he didn't let up, spurring his horse closer to hers. Lady tossed her head and tried to move away, but there wasn't very much space on her side. "Jaime! Stop! She's going to-"

A low hanging branch smacked Jaime Lannister in the face, and he went flying backwards off of his horse. Sansa heard the thump of his landing, and gave a low cry before yanking Lady's head around and galloping back. Once she reached the supine figure, she slid from her horse's back and ran to him.

She was stunned to find him still laughing, albeit in short, pained bursts. Sighing, she folded her arms.

"There's something wrong with you," she informed him, as he alternated between groans and chuckles. "No, really, ser. I'm absolutely positive that you're mad."

"Ohh, ow, ha ha!" he moaned, smiling. "I haven't been knocked from my horse like that since I jousted with Prince Rhaegar...oh gods, that was awful, ha ha! Behold, world, Jaime Lannister versus the trees!"

She smiled despite herself, kneeling beside him. Touching his chest gently, she began to laugh.

"How did you ever become a legend for your swordplay?" she asked him, "I feel your relentless humor should have been what spread like wildfire to your enemies. It's enough to drive anyone absolutely wild."

"Wild with _lust_," he corrected solemnly, a grin threatening to break through. "If you're any sort of example, anyhow." She blushed and nearly smacked him, but he grimaced before she could, touching his side. Her hands moved over his, trying to soothe him but not knowing how.

"Are you alright?" she asked him anxiously. He left on the morrow for battle, and she was scared to think that he might be wounded before he went. "Jaime, how can I help you?"

"You could unlace that dress a little, that would probably help me," he said seriously, recoiling when she raised her fist. "Don't! Don't! Don't you dare! If I die because of you, I'm absolutely not leaving you anything!"

"I could just make up a story," she thought aloud, her hand on her chin. "Something ridiculous, like the Lion of Lannister getting his in the face with a branch, falling from his horse, and dying alone and sad in the forest." Jaime burst out laughing at that.

"Oh, see, you have a little humor in your cold Stark heart, too!" he teased, but was cut off when she abruptly kissed him. He smiled against her mouth, his hand reaching up to touch her hair. Ignoring the dirt accumulating on her skirts, she lay down beside him, tugging at the laces of her dress. He was happy to help her, his fingers brushing hers as he impatiently loosened all of the ribbons.

"Here?" she whispered, her eyes flying up and down the road. "Can't we find somewhere more secluded? What if someone sees?" The court considered her wanton enough, thanks to the flying rumors, and the last thing she needed was someone riding down the road.

"No, here," he insisted, giving up on the laces. There were simply too many of them for his one hand. He hiked up her skirts and jerked down his breeches. Sansa blushed darkly, but didn't fight him. "If someone dishonors you with his eyes, I'll cut them out for you, is that alright?" Sansa laughed, but his expression was much too serious before he joined her. Equal parts horrified and touched, she didn't quite know how to react.

"Really?" was all she could manage as he began to pull her onto his lap. He stopped then, looking up at her in surprise.

"Of course," he said as if it were the simplest fact in the world. "You're my wife. No other man is allowed to look at you." That said, he moved his attention back to her dress. Pulling down the bodice gently, he freed her milky white breasts and kissed them generously. Sansa had to hold back both a moan and a laugh.

"Well this isn't fair," gasped Sansa, pulling away slightly. He gave her a disgruntled look before pulling her closer. "Not if I'm not decent in the middle of a road!" She pushed his head back, trying to stand. He hooked her foot and she tumbled, but his arms were there to break her fall. He laughed and rolled them until she was squashed beneath him. With him on top, his long cape spread like a blanket around them.

"There, is that better?" he purred, trying to hike her skirt up again. She wanted to push him off of her, but then his hot hardness was between her sensitive thighs, and her toes curled deliciously when he returned to her breasts. But she couldn't stand the constant terror of being caught.

"Please, Jaime," she begged him, fingers digging into his golden cape. His eyes met hers finally and he sighed; he'd never been patient, but something about her made him want to be. Perhaps it was her innocence; she was still so green to the art of lovemaking. But then, he'd never been with anyone besides Cersei before her, and he was quite new to her too.

Pulling her up, he lifted her off of her feet, her green skirts flared and bunched at her knees. Kicking off his breeches, he carried her into the forest.

He didn't stop immediately; the horses would wait on the road for them, he knew, and were safe from thieves in the forest so close to the palace. No bed of pine needles and dust would do for Sansa, he could tell. With bright eyes and leaves in her long auburn hair, her green dress nearly touching the ground even as he carried her, she looked for all the world an ethereal creature; a forest spirit, young and airy. And dressed in gold, he may as well play her knight.

He found the perfect area, one that he remembered from times past. It was a place Robert had often stopped to sup and rest during his hunts, a lovely grassy field in the sun, surrounded by the deep forest and filled with the scent of wildflowers. It was a romantic place, one that he'd taken Cersei to before. But he brushed that memory from his mind uncomfortably. Though his intentions had been slow and loving, what had actually happened had been fierce and fast. And he knew how that would unnerve Sansa.

Her eyes were large when he laid her down in the meadow, and he could nearly see the maiden's dream playing out in her mind. And so, he unclasped his cape with one hand and lifted her onto it; she lay back on the gleaming gold, waiting for him. He pulled the mail over his head, kicked off his boots. His sword he lay down carefully beside her.

She was unlacing her own dress, to make it easy on him. Blushing, she slowly pulled the silks from herself until all that was left were her fine brown calfskin boots, with delicate ruby roses at the top. He hesitated over her, hardly able to keep himself from joining her. She blushed at the odd look he gave her.

"You liked my boots on last time," she said shyly, fighting not to cover herself. Being exposed still brought back vivid memories of Joffrey's cruel stripping of her in front of the entire court, but the way Jaime looked at her was in no way the same. It was as if he could have ignored her body all day to look at her face. But the desire was there; his gaze slipped occasionally.

With a burst of delighted laughter, he leaned forward and kissed her nose. There was something so endearing in the gesture that it almost scared her.

"As long as everything else is off," he informed her, smiling widely. But then he chastised himself; that was not gallant of him to say. He knew she'd like something romantic, but his mind drew blanks. He didn't know if he could be romantic; everything with Cersei had been lust and humor. But, looking at her, with her rich tangled hair and her enormous blue eyes, the words came almost too easily to him. "I could look at you forever..."

Sansa's breath caught, her heart stuttering a little bit. With the halo of the sun behind him, spotted through the red autumn leaves, he looked like a young god. She couldn't tear her eyes from his soft, curling golden hair, his kind smile, his mischievous, catlike green eyes that glittered like emeralds. Her hands rested on the hard muscles of his arms, and though he lay between her bare thighs, there was no rush to this.

She tried to squash the familiar feeling rising in her, tried hopelessly to drive it away again. She knew the pain of having it ripped from her, and she wanted to forget that pain. But it rose, it rose from her like the loveliest of spring flowers, and it touched Jaime Lannister.

Sansa cried, then. She didn't mean to, but a few tears leaked through, and he couldn't have understood them but he kissed her anyways. She cried because she could not bring herself to crush this last feeling in her. She had lost all of the love she had ever had, her father first, her mother, her sister and her brothers. Though she was amongst the house of lions, she was like a starving child who had been handed a bounty, a feast. And, instead of rejecting a feast given by the hand that struck her, she couldn't help but to accept it.

She let him kiss her, let him touch her, and reluctantly she handed him her heart.

She gave in. She moved with him, her hands on his arms and her legs around his waist, her head thrown back. She kissed him, let herself open to him. His pace changed from slow and sensual to hard and needy much too soon. She let him though he hurt her a little bit, his hand too tight on her waist and hips striking hers painfully.

There was little satisfaction in it for her, but that was okay. He fell beside her, breathless, when he finished, and she moved closer when he put his arms around her.

They lay together for a long time before anything happened.

Looking up, Sansa noticed his deep frown. She reached up and touched his mouth gently. "What's wrong?" she asked him, trying to make him smile again. He managed a half smile, but his heart wasn't in it.

"I'm sorry, that was supposed to go better..." he sighed, his expression sad. She laughed and rubbed his chest with her hand, surprising him and herself.

"Life isn't a song," she told him quietly, not entirely agreeing with herself. But he was smiling again, this time wide and true.

"Really? I find that if you're singing, then whatever you're doing becomes a song," he laughed, bright and golden once more. Sansa laughed with him; despite her previous annoyances, she was finding herself becoming rather fond of his atrocious brand of humor. She enjoyed seeing him smile.

They lay quietly again, listening to the bird calls above them. Despite their efforts, it seemed that they couldn't manage to fight off the sobriety.

"Are you afraid?" she finally asked him, thinking about Stannis and his ever advancing troops. It hadn't left her mind since he'd told her he was leaving. But he scoffed.

"The Lion of Lannister is never afraid," he said arrogantly, his hand tightening on her shoulder. His right hand though, the golden one, he lifted until they were both staring at it. "Jaime, however, is a little nervous," he confided, almost ashamedly. "Let's hope there's a kitten in you, or they're just going to sell you to someone else; probably tell them you're a maiden, too, I'd wager. The Kingslayer was much too busy to deflower his little winter rose."

"Stop," she said suddenly, a chill going through her. He had clearly thought this through. "Don't talk like that. You're coming back. Don't say such things." He looked down at her, an eyebrow raised slightly.

"Why, Sansa, little wife, is that the sweet sound of concern? Is it possible you're worried for your dear, darling husband?" he asked, seemingly shocked. She didn't indulge his humor this time, though. Her expression was deadly serious. He laughed lightly and touched her chin with his left hand. "Careful, my silly little wolf. Men might think that the women of the north are terribly cold."

"I'm serious, Jaime," she said, brushing his hand away. He sighed and returned his hand to her face, placing it more firmly on her jaw.

"Don't be. Everything is going to be fine," he told her, his eyes meeting hers. "I promise I won't speak of that anymore. By the gods, I know you're serious; you're awfully serious for such a sweet girl." He managed to pull a reluctant smile from her. Moving closer to her, he pulled a few tender kisses from her mouth. "Come, let's see if we can't get some more smiles out of you..."

* * *

><p>Sansa sat on her bed, examining the scraps of cloth before her.<p>

One was white with a dark grey direwolf racing across the front, and laced with black. One was blue, with delicate scarlet tendrils creeping across the fabric. The third was silver, with elegant white 'S's at each corner. She picked up the third one and stroked the silky fabric.

Jaime had asked for her favor to wear to battle, to 'serve as his inspiration' he had said. She didn't know if he was serious or teasing her, but he had seemed serious. And though she had remembered when Joffrey had made her kiss his sword, this somehow didn't seem to be the same. He wasn't riding off to kill her brother, and she did not bless his sword with the swiftness to murder. Instead, the favor was to symbolize a wife or lover's protection.

_Should I protect him? _she wondered to herself, but that tiny thing that should have been dead inside of her cried out in anger. _He is my husband. If he dies, then who will the Lannisters give me to next, to snatch my birthright? _And yet, she couldn't help but feel that she would have grieved at news of his death, and not because of her birthright.

_He is good, and kind. Mother, what would you have done?_

"My lady, miss Sansa Stark," said a mild voice from her doorway, and Sansa whipped around. A finely dressed man stood there, not very tall but with bright, intelligent eyes and a pointed beard. Sansa curtseyed deeply, having seen him around the castle for a long while, but hardly ever speaking with him.

"Lord Baelish," she greeted him, rising from her curtsy. "How good of you to visit me. But I am Sansa Lannister now, as you might have forgotten." She never did forget her courtesies. The man stepped into her room, looking around. She felt a bit nervous, with him here, but he gave her a kind smile.

"Yes, young lady, but you are the very image of your dear mother," he laughed lightly, stepping forward and taking her hand. He lifted it and kissed her knuckles briefly. "I quite nearly called you a Tully!" She couldn't help but smile; she knew how much like her mother she looked, and treasured that last piece of herself dearly.

"Well, I have traded my mother's blues for golds, I fear," she replied, before touching her mouth with her hand. It wasn't smart to speak so loosely of her own disdain for the marriage, but Littlefinger did not look aghast. Instead, he laughed again and patted her cheek.

"Yes, you're quite right. I must admit, I stopped by because I was terribly curious to see how Catelyn's eldest daughter was faring. You're rather absent in the court, and it's growing terribly cold and dull in there." Sansa remembered how she had once dined with the queen, ridden with Joffrey and toured the city at his side. She did not miss those days in the least, preferring to spend her time lounging in the Maidenvault with Margaery or by herself, singing and drawing and dreaming of Winterfell.

"I have been well, my lord," she was able to say truthfully. "I find myself with much to do, despite my time away from the court." He glanced around the room, at the scattered papers and cloths, at the silver instruments across her bed.

"Yes, I can see that," he said impassively. "How goes your marriage, my lady? That is, if you don't mind my prying." Sansa couldn't imagine why he wanted to know how her marriage was going, since most of the court already knew of her personal opinions on it, but something told her that she could trust this man. Besides, she had little to say that he could use against her.

"Of course not, good ser," she assured him. "If you'd like to have a seat, we can continue to converse in a more comfortable manner." She gestured to the comfy armchairs around her small table, and he followed her to them. "I'm sorry, I have no refreshments. I can send my maids, if you'll allow me."

She turned and gestured to Alisoun, who nodded and disappeared from the room.

"You're quite the hostess," he complimented her, leaning back in his chair. "I could only imagine what you would do with a full castle at your beckoning, lady Sansa!" She smiled, thinking about her castle in the snow, the one held by Theon Greyjoy.

"As could I," she agreed wistfully. "I do so long to see Winterfell again. But Jaime is bringing me back, once I am for certain with child." She blushed, forgetting herself again. It was not very proper to discuss such things with a lord, but his gentle, green-grey eyes pursuaded her easily into slipping.

"And what a pretty lady you will be," he interrupted, chuckling. "Wrapped in furs in your snowy castle, a baby in your hands." He sighed, accepting a cup of sweetmilk brought by her maid. "You make me feel so old, my lady. It seems only yesterday I was wooing your mother, and now here you sit, dreaming of your own household and children. Dear Sansa, I wish you all of the happiness that has been so absent in this world. I am so sorry for the news of your family, as late as I give it. That was the other thing I came here for. Sansa, if you need to speak with anyone, my door is always open to you."

The way he said that gave her an odd chill, but she ignored it and smiled. It felt good, as little as she trusted anybody, to have someone sympathize with her.

"Thank you, my lord," she said quietly, breaking a small cake into half and lifting a bite to her mouth. She chewed the piece thoughtfully. Why would he come here and blatantly declare his allegiance to her? He was a man of quick and clever words, and she could read easily through his lines. "I will remember that."

"But, you did not answer my question," he chided her playfully. "How is life with the infamous Lion of Lannister?" She noticed both that he did not call Jaime the Kingslayer, and also that he referred to him as 'infamous.' This tricky man was secretly giving her his loyalties, and at the same time covering his tracks. She wondered to herself where she had learned to read the unspoken language of the court, but remembered the tournies with Joffrey; she had once done the very same.

"It goes well," she confessed to him. "He is amiable and does make me smile. I enjoy his company." She could not bring herself to let Lord Baelish know of Jaime's violent and often aggressive moods; she also could not reveal to him how deeply her feelings were becoming. And so she chose her words carefully; but the look in Petyr's eye hinted that he was aware of her raised shields. He, too, could read between lines, and he read her neutral words as easily as she his.

"I'm sure you do," said Lord Baelish shortly. "Ser Jaime is very good with his jokes, very quick to laugh. But I fear to say that he is not a very good conversationalist, like you, my lady. He is bound to go gallivanting off onto different subjects."

"Yes, I quite know what you mean," laughed Sansa, trying to figure out what he meant by that. She didn't like this game, but didn't know how to end it. "It is difficult to coax a serious conversation from him."

"Yes," agreed Petyr, not laughing with her. "I had expected him to sober up with his wife, though. How much do you know, Sansa, about Jaime Lannister?" His voice had gone softer now, and a little more sinister. She could not figure out what he was implying, or what his end goal was. What did this man have to say about her marriage?

"I know of his victories in battle," she said defensively, not knowing what she was being defensive of. "I know of his love for his sister, his family. I know of his hard head and rash decisions." Lord Baelish was no longer smiling, but leaning forward, his hands folded under his chin in a pensive manner. His kind eyes had turned rather cold.

"Yes, you know of everything that is possible to know by watching Jamie Lannister for more than five minutes," he said curtly, and Sansa felt as though he had slapped her, but couldn't say why. She flushed angrily. "But what do you _know_ of him? Has he told you of his time as a knight of King Aerys' Kingsguard? Has he told you how he lost his hand? Did he tell you the name of his first love?"

"Ser, you go too far," she burst, standing. She felt impossibly rude, but at the same time indignant. Who did this man think he was, to come uninvited to her chambers and question her relationship with her husband? "I have been married into an enemy house against my will," she hissed poisonously. "I apologize if my relationship to my husband does not satisfy you. Please leave my room."

He stood slowly, almost abashedly. She did not allow for remorse, though, and stood firm. He walked towards the door, but before he could leave, stopped and turned.

"I was very close with Kat," he said quietly. "I want very dearly for her only surviving daughter to be happy." His hand tightened on the door handle, and she felt a flicker of fear, not understanding why. "I just wanted you to see that you do not know Jaime Lannister. I believe you should ask him a few questions about his past, Sansa. Ask him about Cersei, and see what the Kingslayer has to tell you."

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><p>...<p>

O.O


	12. Coming Clean

PLEASE DON'T HIT ME!

haha I'm sooo sorry I haven't written in so long, I PROMISE I haven't abandoned this story! I will complete it! But it's a super difficult and busy summer, on top of the fact that I'm working on another fic, so I heartily apologize but I don't know if I can update again for a while. It depends on my schedule, but I may be without internet for a few weeks :(

But OMG do I love you guys' reviews! I'm just so impressed with the absolute amount of effort you all put into them, and super touched! I actually got some from people who have been directed to this story by friends, and I have to say I was floored! Thank you all for the kind and numerous dissections of the story.

Also, someone mentioned that they haven't finished the books, and I'd like to say that I'd like to prevent spoilers...NEARLY everything I write is NOT canon, that primarily meaning the Jaime/Sansa couple. Most of the events around them, I'm sorry to say, DO happen. I just bounce them off of a different couple. Read the books and find out which events are and aren't!

Also, Cersei is mad at Jaime for not being meaner to Sansa. She's just jealous. She's also not fond of him at approximately this point in the story, too.

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><p>The captains were all in the stables, having drawn their armor and weaponry. She passed gently kissing couples, fathers hugging children, and squires assisting their knights with last-minute adjustments. Several young soldiers catcalled, but instantly recovered their courtesies when they recognized her.<p>

She found him saddling his white destrier, decked in red and gold with lions racing across the long dressings. He wore his golden armor, she saw, and he looked breathlessly handsome in the light filtering through the windows. Several young men stood with him, and they all spoke quietly. But when he saw her, he hushed them with a gesture. Her eyes narrowed a little at his easy, convincing smile.

"My lady," he greeted her, bowing slightly and taking her hand. He looked pleased to see her, albeit confused. "What are you doing here? The stables are no place for my pretty little wife. Though I welcome your presence anyways, of course." She took her hand back after he brushed it with his lips.

"Yes, well, I had a sudden urge to speak with you," she said airily, smoothing down her ivory skirts. "Privately," she added, giving him a look. He nodded to the captains and they left the stall, leaving Jaime and Sansa alone. Suddenly, face to face with him, she didn't quite know where to start. He waited for her to speak, but when she said nothing, he turned and began buckling a sheath to his destrier's saddle.

"Did you come here to see me off?" he asked her without turning. "You know we're having ceremonial send-off anyways, we would have had time then."

"No," she began, trying to figure out what she wanted to say. "I wanted to talk about something else."

He turned, then, with that irresistible smile playing about his mouth. His eyes were lazy and sensual as he snatched a fold of her skirts and pulled her closer with his hand. "Oh? Are you sure that was it? We won't have the privacy, you know, during the ceremony for anything risqué." He tugged her close and leaned forward, but she turned away angrily.

"Stop," she huffed, pushing back at him with her hands. "I'm serious, I wanted to talk with you." He drew back and looked confused, but defaulted immediately to humor.

"And what a serious little wolf," he teased her, touching her cheek. But now she could see through his deflections.

"Don't do that," she snapped, her eyes dark with anger. "Don't treat me like a child." He withdrew, startled, his temper rising easily at her provocation.

"Don't touch you, don't talk with you," he said heatedly, turning back to his horse. "What did you come here for, then? If you came to fight, then you can very well leave. I'll have enough fighting to worry about as is without you attacking me too." She grabbed his arm and pulled, but he would not turn to face her.

"I came to speak like adults," she said firmly, her hands on her hips. "Not in jokes, and don't be condescending. I wanted to discuss something with you."

"And what, dare I ask, is that?" came his cold reply. His hands were busy at his horse, adjusting the tasseled red bridle. Upset that he would not give her his full attention, and at the same time giving in to it, she breathed a sigh.

"How did you lose your hand?" she murmured, and she saw him shake his head.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Why did you kill King Aerys?"

"Not that either."

"What was the name of your first lover?"

"Nor that."

"Tell me about Cersei."

His hand went still on his horse, and she saw every muscle in his back tighten at the same time. His hand went still on his horse, and for a moment it seemed as though he had frozen. Then, slowly, he turned to face her. His expression was heavily guarded, and Sansa felt a thrill of fear at what lay behind the shields.

"What do you want to know?" he asked her quietly, smoothly. She could have believed his calm facade, except for the ringing of the sword that cut her father's neck in her ears. _How could I have ignored that?_ Her breath came in short gasps.

"What are you hiding from me?" she whispered, unable to keep her voice from breaking. _Please, convince me. Please make me believe that nothing is wrong._ "What is there that you can't tell me? I am your _wife_." His low laugh broke through her words.

"Did your father ever tell your mother who birthed his bastard son?" he spat arrogantly at her. She reeled back as though he had struck her. "You _are_ my wife. And as such, you are entitled to that which I give you. If I don't give it to you, then it is not your right to ask for it." He did not turn back to his horse, but gestured to the door of the stall. Sansa stood very still for a moment, hurt and confused.

"I...I don't understand," she managed, trying hard not to cry. She searched for her armor, but all courtesies were gone when she faced him. All she could do was pray that he did not draw on her vulnerability. "I thought-"

He caught on to her moment of weakness, and aimed straight for it. His hand snagged hers again, and he pulled her closer. "Go get some rest, Sansa," he said softly, wrapping his arm around her. "You're exhausted. Don't worry so much, everything will be fine."

She nearly agreed with him, but the ringing was still there and it hurt her head terribly. Abruptly she pulled away from him, not allowing him to fool her. They stood an arm's length apart, and she would move no nearer nor farther from him.

"_Tell_ me," she growled. She threw back her thick hair, not compromising. He didn't compromise, either.

"My history is none of your business," he said sharply, not dropping her hard gaze. "My future is your business. My present, yes. If I am so inclined, I may share it with you someday. But not on your demand."

Sansa's fists shook with anger. She had nothing to bargain with, and they both knew it. But if what she suspected was true, his words were as good as a confession. She trembled with hurt and realization. She knew Littlefinger must be right; everything about Jaime's defensiveness was a vivid banner on his guilt.

She hoped against all hope that Jaime could prove her wrong. But he just stood there, drawn tall, his green eyes much too hard. His stiff-legged stance, the breath he held, everything about him was a confession.

"My father was right," she whispered, trying not to cry. "He was right, and you let him die."

"You know nothing," he ejected, his eyes alarmed for only a moment before he recovered himself. But her accusing stare was overpowering. "You know _nothing_."

"You _are_ a monster," her voice quivered. Her arms wrapped around herself, over her belly. "It's going to be a monster, too." Tears dripped from her long lashes, first one, and then too many to count. Jaime stood as if he were made of stone, staring hard at her, quickly losing his cool facade.

"Sansa, don't be a fool," he said harshly, his fist tightening at his side. "Go back to your room. Refresh yourself, and then come down to the ceremony and _behave_." He spoke as if she were a young girl again. Sansa would have retched if she were not a lady.

"Joffrey is your -I almost...I would have..." she leaned forward a little, wondering if she was going to tear apart at the seams. "My father is dead...because of _you_!" She straightened abruptly, and launched herself forward. Her fist caught Jaime by surprise, aimed straight for his face, but he dodged her easily.

"_Sansa_!" he snarled warningly, blocking her blows relatively easily. Tears blurred her vision as she struck at him, desperate to land just one blow...just one that would be enough to kill him. She could see the anger building behind his fragile courtesies, but she didn't care. Her brothers, her mother...all of the terrible things that had happened to her were rooted in the death of her father.

"_You're a monster_!" she screamed, causing the white destrier to whinny and stomp nervously. "I'd rather cut my own _throat_ than birth your _ugly spawn_!" The words poured from her before she could be bothered to think about them, every terrible thing she could think of dripping from her own lips. He didn't strike her, as she had expected him to, but he trapped her two hands in his one; he was shockingly strong, just in one hand. She had no chance of pulling free.

"Why?" she cried brokenly, the fight leaving her much too soon. Her blue eyes drank imploringly in his. They stared at each other, frozen, seeing each other bared. There was no fight in him, only now a shameful, cracked pride. His mouth opened and closed, and he swallowed twice. He let go of her hands, and she rubbed her wrists, but didn't move away from him. She stared at him and still, she prayed that he could make her believe him.

"I love her," he said in the thunderous silence. Sansa couldn't breath, her heart was so stuffed into her throat. But she swallowed, and stepped back. There was a dark, ugly feeling inside of her, and she didn't want to face it yet.

"Fine," she said quietly, her jaw clenched against her tears. She turned and began to flee.

"Sansa, wait!" he called, grabbing her wrist, but she wrenched it from him before he could get a grip.

"I said _fine_!" she screamed, the tears gone, rage replacing them. They faced off again, but this time it was Sansa in control. "I can't make you love me. I can't make you not love her. But do not _dare_ presume yourself forgiven, and do not _dare_ presume to come to me."

She turned and ran from the stall, ignoring the appalled looks from the knights in the stables, and the boys leading the horses.

* * *

><p>Jaime leaned against the wall, his head in his good hand.<p>

_Is she going to tell people? Is she going to kill herself?_ He gestured to one of his servants, who had returned with supplies.

"Please go and tell my wife's guards to keep a close eye on her today, and for the time I'm gone," he said firmly, imagining her cutting her own throat or, possibly worse, running away alone. "Today, especially."

The servant scurried off, and he was alone again.

"Am I a monster?" he asked Isabel, his white mare. She gave him a long look before grabbing for some hay. He sighed and rubbed his face. "Maybe I am..."

He thought about Cersei, and he thought about Sansa. Cersei's golden mane, Sansa's rich, red-brown. Cersei's sexy green eyes, Sansa's lovely blue; Cersei's cold loveliness and Sansa's warm smile. Honestly, he wasn't sure that he loved _either_ of them at the moment, they were so troublesome.

"Catelyn Stark was a good wife!" he grumbled to Isabel, lifting a sword and sheathing it against her saddle. "Didn't say a word about Stark's affair...so devoted, she keeps fighting a war, even without him! See, if I died, Cersei would have Casterly Rock all to herself, and Sansa would be free to marry whomever she pleased." It wasn't entirely true, but he couldn't imagine that she would be crying her pretty blue eyes out.

He mounted his horse, grimly resolving himself to a rather cold send-off. "Honestly, can't seem to get anything right these days."

* * *

><p>Sansa lay sprawled across her bed, wishing she wasn't such a foolish creature.<p>

She thought that after her family's death, she would have been wiser to the ways of the court, but never could she have suspected something like this. Once she had loved Joffrey; and now he still won, because she was mooning after his _father_. She shuddered, feeling unbearably cold and alone inside.

How could she have just trusted him like that? They had been married for so short a time, and yet she couldn't stop herself from falling for his lies, his deceits...she wondered if she had any true friends in the world.

Littlefinger...she remembered that he had told her of Jaime's lies, had told her of his deep love for her mother. Perhaps, if she could find him, he would take her away from here! Sansa leapt, breathless, to her feet and began to pace. What did she need to bring? She grabbed her small jewelry chest; most of it had been given to her by her mother. She grabbed an extra gown and threw open the door.

All four of her guards stood before her with patient, but determined expressions. Sansa squeaked and shut the door again slowly, entirely sure that Jaime had told them to keep and eye on her. Furious, she threw the gown across the room.

_Even when he's gone, he ruins my life!_ she thought despairingly, crumpling to the ground. Her hands shook as they rested on her lap, and her shoulders shook with the effort not to cry.

But he was leaving now, he was going to war, and if she was lucky he might get struck by somebody's sword and die.

Good riddance.

* * *

><p>"Hmm...I'd say the artichoke salad dish for the first course, the boiled mushroom soup for the soup course, the roast swan for the main course, with the sides of course being the bread stuffing and peaches, the dessert should be that marzipan castle confection we looked at last week, right my dearest?"<p>

Joffrey smiled and laughed enchantingly to his bride. "And the flowers, my love?"

"The flowers are being brought in from my castle," she reassured him, touching his nose gently. "You're not to see them either, it'll be a surprise for the both of us!"

"And of the seating list?"

"Well, my cousins of course, to my left will be my family at the head table. And yours to your right, naturally. But, love, I wish for dearest Sansa to sit with me, on my left amongst my cousins. She's been such a sister to me, I would so love to dine with her!" Margaery said innocently, biting her lip when Joffrey frowned. He gave her a sideways glare.

"You're not trying to embarrass me, are you? It's not some sort of insult?" he asked suspiciously, and Margaery shook her head. "My mother told me to watch out for your wily female insults, though I did tell her you're the sweetest creature."

"I just believe Sansa has had a difficult time lately, and I want to make her feel special! Even though it's our wedding, my darling!" Margaery won him back to her easily; her adorable smile had always been enough for him. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"You're the kindest woman on this earth," he told her sweetly. "Of course Sansa can sit at our table. But, she'll have to sit on _my_ side, because she's my uncle's wife. Even if he can't be there, she should to stand in for him." Margaery bit her lip and nodded, compromising though she knew that nothing in the world would make Sansa feel less special than being seated nearby Joffrey. But he was the king, and his commands must be followed. Margaery curtseyed and lowered her eyes, for now.

"How very good of you, my love. How very good and thoughtful."

* * *

><p>Jaime had never looked more splendid, armored in plated gold and mounted on his white charger. His helmet under his arm, dazzling blonde curls waved in the lazy sea breeze. A thousand countrymen cheered mightily; even more countrywomen called his name, waving flowers and silks.<p>

It was a fantastic send-off by any proportions and especially considering how unpopular King Joffrey was, but at the same time he watched almost wistfully as his knights were tenderly kissed goodbye by their bravely reassuring wives.

It wasn't that he was dying for Sansa to come running, but just knowing that _someone_ would be a little upset at the thought of his never coming back would be nice. But then there was a rush of golden locks, the billow of a red gown, and to his disbelief Cersei's arms had reached up his charger and were tight around his waist.

"Sister," he murmured, touched. She looked up, and as their eyes met all resentment and bitterness washed away. Her lip trembled a little bit; she knew, when it came right down to it, where she belonged. Jaime leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Come back without anything missing this time," she whispered quietly, her hand touching his cheek. He could have laughed, but he felt his ghost hand uselessly near the reins. He sneaked a look around him and tilted her head up, kissing her gently on the lips.

"Have something waiting for me when I get back."

That tone always had the effect he wanted. When she pulled back her eyes were dark with desire. Her smile was as welcoming and coquettish as it had ever been.

"I love you."

* * *

><p>Okay this chapter is shorter than I would have liked, buuut...yeah.<p>

Anyways I just wanted to throw something to my faithful readers! And to let you all know I haven't died! And I'm sorry but updates are going to be scattered, but if you saw X-men First Class and thought Erik was hot as shit, you're free to read my other story, A Second Chance ;DD

Also, internet in my house is way shittier than in my dorm, I've been trying to get this chapter loaded for like two days.


	13. Royal Wedding

Making slight changes to the original path the story takes, but it leads to the same place...(HINT HINT BOOK READERS)

* * *

><p>The entire kingdom was celebrating the union of King Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell with many nights of drinking, dancing, and romancing. Singers flocked to the city, each writing up new and better songs depicting the love between the handsome young king and the loveliest flower in the world.<p>

Sansa could have vomited, the gushy songs were so overpowering. They were all the same song, again and again; the golden knight and the fairy queen, the good king turned from his tyrant family by a fragrant rose, the king of the world and his ethereal spirit love. They were all stuffed full of romantic images and perfect characters, but in no way revealing the truth underneath.

Sansa hated them because they made her question her favorite songs and tales; what of Florent and Jonquil? The Knight and the Maid? Had they truly even loved each other?

The maids ran excitedly about the palace with armfuls of cloth, flowers, and ribbons. Queen Regent Cersei stood at the center of the chaos, constructing the madness with an agile hand. She yelled at bakers, chefs, headmistresses, and head maids as they ran back and forth. The only thing that comforted Sansa was the fact that this was not her wedding.

Nor would it ever be her wedding again.

Sansa touched her flat belly through her whalebone corset, through the rich jeweled dress of gold and creams she wore. The seed pearls poked against her fingers, but she felt through them to her very core.

Fae had been right, or so she almost hoped. Sansa had missed her first course, and she was breathlessly waiting to see if it was simply delayed. She could only hope that Jaime's seed had taken root and she was carrying his child.

She closed her door to the frantically scurrying maids. Sansa knew that Margaery would need her, would need somebody to help her and comfort her fears, but it would have to wait. She reclined into a low scarlet chair and closed her eyes for a moment.

Would she be able to love a child of his?

She tried to envision a tiny golden-haired baby in her arms, with pink cheeks and green eyes. She imaged it with Jaime's smile, his straight nose. She imagined a perfect little replica of her husband and tried to love it.

"Sansa!"

Sansa opened her wide blue eyes, surprised. Margaery rushed into her room, slamming the door behind her. She wore her coronation gown, the loveliest pink and white confection that complimented her chestnut hair perfectly. Silver lace gloves wove delicately up her arms, and loose ribbons and needles stuck out everywhere. She looked positively frazzled. Her normally sweet eyes were wild with impatience and panic.

"Queen Margaery?" Sansa began, confused but trying to adjust to her friend's new title. It was a mantle that she sacrificed with pleasure; nothing was worth marrying Joffrey. "What are you-"

"They're driving me insane!" burst Margaery in frustration, throwing up her hands helplessly. "Cersei, Joffrey, Father, grandmother, the lot of them! I want to hide in here for a little while, with someone who doesn't give a horse's ass about my wedding!" Sansa's jaw dropped; it was possibly the first curse ever dropped from sweet Margaery's lips. The two girls stared at each other for a moment before bursting into nervous laughter.

"Come, sit down," urged Sansa, guiding Margaery to her small table. She had dropped all courtly mannerisms; now she just wanted to help her friend. "Deep breaths, calm yourself. They only want what's best for you."

Margaery laughed, a bitter tone to her young voice. When she looked at Sansa, her eyes were as old as her grandmother's. "Nobody has ever wanted what was best for _us_, Sansa."

"Never have truer words been spoken. Have some tea." Sansa poured a cup of tea for Margaery, since her maids had been called on to help with the wedding. She didn't mind, though; ears were everywhere, and she wanted her room very empty when Margaery came to complain about her husband's family.

"Have you heard the newest song?" asked Margaery in a voice that suggested her thoughts were along the same as Sansa's. When Sansa laughed and shook her head, Margaery scoffed. "It's about the sun and the moon, or something. You know, the sun is king, the moonlight shines over the wildflowers, same as all the others. Well they apparently touch and birth the firebird, which brings wealth to all the people."

"That sounds oddly similar to that other song, where the golden stag marries the Rose Queen, and all the fruits of the forest bloom. I'm sensing a trend, dear Margaery." Sansa hadn't laughed for a long time. Jaime had been gone for a week, and though she was loathe to see him again her world was a little darker without his ceaseless humor. But without Jaime, she was afraid to roam the palace. He wasn't there to protect her honor from catcalling serving boys, guards, and the ever present Joffrey.

"Yes, my wedding will apparently lead to the wealth of the country again. How very charming." Margaery rolled her pretty brown eyes in a very unqueenly fashion. "Reminding me, I have a present for you." She pulled a small box from a fold of her gown, very thin and plain. "It's from my grandmother."

Sansa took it and opened it. Inside was a lovely net for her hair, silver and studded with tiny black stones. Sansa smiled as she withdrew it; it would match the silver dress she was planning to wear to the wedding anyways.

"It's very beautiful. Thank you, my friend." She hugged Margaery warmly. Both girls flinched as someone distantly screamed Margaery's name. The rising queen withdrew and made a face.

"I guess they need me for something. What a surprise," she sighed, standing and straightening her gown. "Come and see me again, Sansa! I can't bear being all alone in the middle of this."

Sansa nodded and smiled, touching Margaery's cheek once before the young queen reluctantly left her room.

Alone again, Sansa sat down and turned the beautiful gift over in her hands. Margaery would be married at the break of dawn, against her will, and expected to bear children to her childish, tyrant husband. Her fate was much the same as Sansa's, except neither knew that Joffrey was Jaime's son, and Sansa married to Jaime...

Her eyelashes were wet. She dabbed at them carefully, not wanting to make the delicate skin around her eyes red. It was all just so horrible, so much darker than the songwriters could have imagined. She had never realized the perversion that twisted itself around the throne like a serpent, never realized how far she wanted to be from it all.

Would her baby be the same? Would it dip into the Lannister cup, or would it be as good and just as a Stark? Her hand touched her belly again, and she prayed for it to be empty.

* * *

><p>Helping to dress Margaery hadn't been as fun, knowing what actually lay behind her blushing cheeks, her excited brown eyes. She appeared for all the world an enchanted lover; but in reality Sansa knew she was a frightened girl.<p>

Sansa left the room with the rest of the girls to find her seat; the sun was rising soon, and everyone was eagerly piling into the greatest courtyard. Cersei had generously chosen the grandest setting to offer; it was the courtyard beside the forest, fragrant with wildflowers. Honeysuckle and blackberry bushes climbed the stone walls beyond which commoners piled to cheer.

The courtyard was a lovely sight to behold. Roses curled around every surface, white and gold and pink. Sansa had never smelled anything so good in her life. _The smell of Jaime's hair as he pressed kisses to her neck..._

Sansa shook her head slightly and greeted the couple beside her, some of Joffrey's extended family, a Lannister aunt or whatnot. She felt very fine in her silver and white dress. It was spotted with seed pearls and delicate ceramic roses everywhere, her sleeves long and gauzy. The silver and black hairnet set stunningly against her mahogany hair.

And then, as everyone gathered to the sides, suddenly the queen appeared in the tallest arch, surrounded by her Tyrell roses. Sansa sighed; though she'd already seen Margaery's dress, the effect was stunning with the crown and the roses all around her. She looked as frail as a fairy surrounded by such magnificence; her dress was long and folded with many sheets of silk, lace sleeves winding all the way to her wrists. Diamonds studded the collar of the dress, as well as all along the hem and sleeves; she glittered beautifully. Golden roses were tangled in her hair, and a woven belt of them was slung at her hips. They were around her wrists, at her neck, the folds of her dress; Margaery was a vision of loveliness.

The commoners who could see over the walls, either by climbing or standing on a friend, cheered mightily at the sight of her. Margaery's shy smile could barely be seen through the spangled veil that hung from her magnificent headdress. She stepped forward, all grace and queenly beauty.

Sansa felt the acutest moment of pity. She knew that beneath the garments of a queen, Margaery was just as reluctant and alone as she herself had ever been. It was as though the rose chains at her hips and wrists dragged her forward, living symbols of her own family's ambition.

A dozen musicians blew into golden pipes, and it was the sound of the wind through the trees that Margaery walked to. Their melody rose with haunting perfection, and children scattered petals around her feet as she walked. Sansa teared a little bit; it was exactly as she'd always dreamed a wedding should be.

Margaery joined Joffrey at the very front of the courtyard, beneath a freestanding arch entwined with gold ribbons and white roses. Red and pink petals flew freely. The holy man, an ancient and powerful high priest, raised a wizened hand for silence.

They said their vows together, they drank from the chalice together, and never did Margaery's eyes leave her new husband's. When he threw his cape around her, he leaned in close to fasten it. A royal smile always graced his lips. They looked for all the world a couple united in love.

"I declare Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell to be forever united. Pledge yourselves with a kiss." The old man's voice rose high above the cheering of everybody, courtiers and commoners alike.

Joffrey threw back her veil, buried a hand in her lustrous brown hair, and kissed her deeply, tenderly. Sansa smiled at the sight of them, locked in a romantic embrace. She wished with all of her heart that Joffrey had changed, that he would be a good and true husband to Margaery.

And then the court was all rushing to them, to congratulate Margaery and welcome her into their families. Sansa walked with Margaery's cousin Alla, who was absolutely overflowing with tears. _Jaime's handsome green eyes as he stared at her in bed, his laughter, his desire..._

Sansa stuffed Jaime out of her head and hugged Margaery close. She couldn't think of what to say to the girl, the girl whose coronation was tonight and who stood bravely in the midst of lions. But it didn't need words; Margaery squeezed her and kissed her cheek. Sansa turned to Joffrey, whose eyes were already roaming her bare shoulders.

"Dearest Auntie," he addressed her, his smile much more of a leer. He held out his arms and she had to accept them. Pulling her close, he bit her on the neck. It reminded her so much of Jaime that she almost burst into tears of anger and disgust. "We'd better be much friendlier, now that all of this is over and my darling uncle is off to war."

His words disgusted her almost as much as the rest of him. She withdrew, fighting to keep her smile intact. "I'm sure my husband would be pleased if we got along, your highness. He is quite a jealous man, I'm sure he'd appreciate the extra protection his kind, handsome nephew would provide."

Joffrey couldn't exactly turn that around, so he simply shot her a glare as she curtsied and walked away.

"Come, Sansa, let's find our seats for the feast!" giggled Alla eagerly, taking Sansa's hand and rushing towards the Head Table. Sansa gasped a little; Margaery had placed her among her own cousins? She felt like weeping at her friend's goodness.

Margaery's grandmother stopped her as they walked, cooing over how lovely she looked and adjusting her black jeweled hairnet. Sansa curtsied to the old woman and thanked her, wishing she could have been married into her family. Alla pulled her onward, and the woman vanished into the crowd behind her.

But there was no place for her there. Confused, Sansa looked around, but suddenly she saw Tyrion the dwarf gesture to her. Her blood ran cold, but she smiled and moved towards him as fluidly as any fine woman of the court. He pulled out her chair for her.

"Thank you, my lord," she said quietly, looking to her left and right. Joffrey and Margaery would sit in the two empty seats in the center of the table; then on Joffrey's right first Queen Cersei, then Lord Tywin, then Sansa, and then the dwarf. She saw quickly that she was sitting in for Jaime. _If Jaime was here, he'd pull out my chair and cut me the sweetest portions of food..._

"My apologies, my lady," said the dwarf gruffly as he seated himself to her right. She waited for the rest, but he didn't look as though he had more to say. Sansa kept the same smooth smile plastered to her face.

"For what, my brother?" she pressed, a little confused. Tyrion smiled grimly at the way she addressed him, but shook his head.

"For everything, of course."

Sansa didn't push him for more. His large, mismatched eyes seemed to be more knowing than any she'd encountered at court. She just smiled and thanked him like a trained lapdog. Trying not to look to either side, not wanting to incite conversation with her Lannister neighbors, she watched the procession of Margaery and Joffrey to the head table.

Margaery had changed dresses, and as always she was breathtaking. Her tiara, silver and green, matched her lily-green silk gown perfectly; the outer folds were drawn back to reveal the palest cream laces. She still had roses and leaves tangled in her long, loose hair.

Her hand was on Joffrey's arm as hey ran through the rows of friends and family, _'allies and kin,_' corrected Sansa bitterly. There was no reason to suspect that they were anything but madly in love; Margaery was all smiles and Joffrey would kiss her face suddenly and unexpectedly. Songwriters strummed lyres in all corners of the courtyard, busily soaking in the moments of romance for their songs.

When they reached the table, the feast began. Commoners still hung about the stone walls, watching in awe as wave after wave of rich, fantastic dishes were brought in. Great roast swan, sucking pigs, haunches of deer and stag, delicate rabbit platters, tossed turnip and wild dandelion salads, fragrant honey-glazed lamb...Sansa found she could stomach next to nothing.

Joffrey was all loveliness and adoration to his beautiful bride, but to his family he was caustic and curt. Sansa was stunned at the tone he used to address his mother, grandfather, and uncle; he was constantly mocking them and filled with contempt. She especially pitied his poor uncle, who had seemed to her to be the kindest and wisest of their family.

Tyrion endured Joffrey's ceaseless disrespects with dignity and good temper, though she could see his black and green eyes flashing. Sansa watched as gifts were bestowed upon the couple, surprised when she heard her own name called.

"From Lord Jaime and Lady Sansa Lannister," declared the presenter, and she recognized him as a one of Jaime's bannermen's sons. It made sense, since his father would be North with Jaime. Joffrey shot her a suspicious glance before accepting it. One of the other men led forward, to her surprise, a great lion, tame and rippling tawny. "He notes: never forget your roots."

Joffrey surveyed the lion with glee; he jumped forward to take the golden leash from its handler, who protested but was ushered away. Joffrey tied it to his throne, extremely satisfied in the gift from his daring and often thoughtless uncle.

Sansa saw Cersei sigh and grind her teeth a little bit. She did, too, at Jaime's mindless indulgence. Who on earth would give his nephew _'his son._.' a lion for his wedding?

But the gifts moved onwards. Sansa flinched when Joffrey chopped his uncle Tyrion's great and ancient book in half with the sword he'd received from Lord Tywin. It looked oddly similar to the black and red one in Jaime's armory, she noticed.

But the book was a terrible loss indeed. Very few of its copies existed in the world, and Sansa could only imagine the trouble Tyrion went through to get his hands on one of them. She felt terrible for him, as he struggled to accept Joffrey's rash stupidity with the grace and goodness of a courtier.

The dinner went from bad to worse. Joffrey's humor spiraled wildly as he drank from his wedding chalice, the goblet nearly as tall as Margaery. He screamed at the entertainers, the servants, at anybody who claimed his attention. Margaery tried to calm him, but he ignored her entirely.

Clapping his hands, he smugly called forward the last entertainers.

It was two dwarves, one seated on a dog and one seated on a pig. As they jousted, Joffrey jeered at his poor uncle Tyrion, whose face had frozen into a mask of indifference. Sansa tried not to pay attention; they were all Lannisters, bickering with one another beneath the cold formality of a Stark.

But Joffrey wasn't done; offended, he moved towards his uncle for a comment he'd made, and Sansa jumped as wine slopped from the goblet clenched in his hand over her dress. Joffrey was very, very drunk; he dropped the goblet and demanded that Tyrion pick it up. When the dwarf reached for it, Joffrey kicked it farther away and laughed.

Furious, Sansa rose to her feet. She couldn't bear it anymore, couldn't sit and listen to Joffrey's selfish, hateful laugh. She could have struck him, she was so angry.

But she was a lady. Instead of striking Joffrey and being done with it, she quietly turned and helped Lord Tyrion to his feet. His mismatched eyes were surprised at the unexpected support from his brother's quiet young wife.

"Here, I'll hold if while you pour," she said gently, taking the goblet from him. He nodded, touched, and took a wine jug from a servant. She could feel Joffrey's distasteful eyes on her, but she ignored him entirely. When the cup was full she returned it to Tyrion.

They exchanged a moment of understanding, a moment where family ties dropped and she was a lonely girl and he was an outcast from his own family. He gave her a wretched, lopsided smile before taking the cup and turning to his nephew.

Joffrey took a swig from the cup, eyeing both Tyrion and Sansa with arrogance and contempt, a laugh still on his fat lips. He swigged again, and Margaery called to him to return to her.

He began to turn, but he never made it to his wife. Staggering, Joffrey Baratheon collapsed and began to choke. His face turned bright red, and he coughed and coughed but couldn't draw breath. Sansa gasped when she heard Cersei scream, the most terrible sound she had ever heard.

Joffrey's fingers drew blood as he clawed at his own throat desperately, unable to draw breath. His mother rushed to his side immediately, her face streaked with tears as she shook him, pounded his chest, anything to make her son breathe again.

Joffrey raised a shaking hand, his eyes bulging with terror in the face of death, and his finger pointed straight at Tyrion. Then Joffrey Baratheon, heir to King Robert, brother to two young siblings, Jaime and Cersei's son and Margaery's husband, choked one last time before he died.

The court was silent for a heartbeat.

Then, suddenly, it exploded everywhere. There was screaming, rushing, crying from the commoners, singers drawing close, guards sealing off the arches, and general havoc. Only Sansa stood very still, the strangest sense of satisfaction and grief mingling inside of her. She smiled, slowly, hauntingly...a true smile.

"_You_!" screamed Cersei Lannister, her hands shaking and her face bright with agonizing sadness. "You _bitch_!" She ran forward and slapped Sansa, so hard that the girl lost her breath. Stunned, Sansa stumbled backwards. Her hands came up to defend herself, but Cersei was relentless. Her hands struck the poor girl, again and again, nails curled into talons. "You killed my son! _You killed my son_!"

Sansa felt a low fury bubbling in her, and suddenly her arm cocked back and she had punched the Queen Regent.

"I didn't kill your bastard, but I wish I had," she spat forcefully, the deliciously hateful poison that bubbled for so long inside of her finally spilling out. Cersei's face was horrible, and at once two guards had her by the arms.

"Take her away!" screamed Cersei, her beautiful face a wreck of agony and fury. Her golden curls had come loose, and flew about her face like those of a vengeful goddess. Even in her grief, she was magnificent. Sansa could have punched her again. "Lock her in the dungeons with that vile dwarf! I'll see her dead if it kills me!"

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged off by the guards. The courtyard disappeared behind her, and good riddance. Sansa felt a rush of many emotions; delight at Joffrey's death, satisfaction at letting Cersei know exactly how she felt, sadness at the violent whirlpool at whose center was the widowed Margaery.

"Wait," burst Sansa, struggling for the first time. The guards ignored her, pulling her onwards. "Wait, wait, please, let me go to my room first! Ser Jaime's room, let me go!" They continued to ignore her, but their hands were gentle on her arms. Their expressions told her everything; they would not hurt a lady, but she was not trusted. They thought she'd try to pull something.

Sansa fell quiet and let them take her.

The dungeons were cold and damp. Sansa shuddered; all her life she'd been coddled in warmth and brightness. This new world was an alien one to her. She stepped down the stairs with all the elegance and ladylike manners she'd ever learned. It was the hardest thing to do, to still be a lady here.

But she walked with dignity into the cell they opened for her. She stood inside, her hands folded demurely in the tresses of her fine gown. Sansa Stark recovered a lady as always.

The guards looked uncomfortable, but not regretful. They would not free her, not after they suspected her for having a hand in the murder of the king.

"What did you need from Ser Jaime's room?" one finally asked her softly. He was young, an honest soldier. Sansa smiled sadly at them from behind bars.

"My silver lute, please."

They nodded and left her. Alone in a dank corner of the dungeons, she finally sank to her knees and cried.

* * *

><p>Many people visited her in the dungeons, but few were friendly.<p>

Various members of the court came to spit abuse at her, and once Cersei came and asked in a low, controlled voice for a confession. Sansa remained silent, and Cersei had left her.

The dungeons were no place for a lady of the court. Sansa knew that, by right, she was supposed to be held captive in her own rooms, but no one would help her now. She had no father to defend her rights, no brothers, no kingdom. Her own husband was far North fighting Stannis's men, and he likely knew nothing of what had happened.

Sansa had been alone for over a week, kept in nearly pitch black. She hadn't cried since her first night, though she felt like crying all the time. Her silver lute lay quiet in her fingers, though she would pluck herself a sad tune once in a while. The worst part was not knowing for how long she was down there. There were no windows, no lamps. She never knew what time of day it was.

The food they served her was of higher quality than that received by other captives, she knew. It was no bread and water; her bread was accompanied by fruits, honey, and wine, though of the plainest caliber. She took comfort in the fact that they fed her.

Sansa thought of her father, how he had once been kept in this very same dungeon for plotting to overthrow Joffrey, and she laughed bitterly. This, then, was her penance. She felt more at peace now than she ever had in the Lannister household. Perhaps they would behead her and finish the family trend.

She counted the time on her heartbeats, when she slept and woke, and by how often she was fed. It was more often than Eddard Stark had been, she would have bet on that. Margaery would not leave her friend starving, as helpless as she was to save Sansa.

One day, a rather short man was allowed into the dungeons. He held a small oil lamp in his left hand. To his right was a member of the guard. Sansa stood and brushed the mud from her dress, though it was to little effect. But she would always be a lady.

"Lord Baelish," she greeted him, and he held out his hand through the bars. She placed hers in his, and he drew her forward to kiss her fingers lightly. It was almost funny. "What brings you to my humble dwelling?"

"This will be your death, Sansa," he said bluntly, cutting straight through courtesies. "Already they gather a court to hear you, but rest assured they will not be kind. Ser Payne's sword will be through your neck in a fortnight."

Sansa took the blow with calm acceptance. She bowed her head. "I can only trust that my innocence will see me through this," she said quietly. "The gods are not cruel. They will bring me safely through the darkness."

"The gods _are_ cruel, and you of anybody should know this," he said impatiently. Keys jingled in his hand as he unlocked her cell. "You were supposed to stay out of the way. The dwarf should have taken the entirety of the fall, but for your damned courtesies. Come, I'm bringing you out of here."

"I will not be a refugee," she said angrily, drawing away from him. She glanced at the guard, but he'd been bought. His back was to her as he watched the door. "I _am_ innocent, and I will go to this trial to be cleansed of this horrible accusation. I cannot leave. They will not kill me." She was sure of it. Her hand briefly touched her belly, and Petyr's quick eyes caught the motion.

"Your lion cub will not save you," said Petyr shortly. "Lord Tywin has lost his eldest grandson. If he believes you a threat to his claim, he will find another brood mare for Jaime. Now come, before anybody sees."

"I expect no justice," she said evenly, not moving towards him. "I know that the court will not rule in my favor. But as a noblewoman, I cannot shame myself by fleeing."

"You would rather die, than be shamed?" burst Petyr furiously, quietly. His eyes were dark and angry. "You would rather end the Stark name, and leave your castle pillaged, than have a few courtiers speak badly of you?" Her eyes met his with a confidence that shattered him.

"I am not a traitor, nor am I a murderer. I redeem the Stark name," she said coolly. "As a noblewoman, I am granted trial by combat, to be judged by the gods." Petyr's eyes widened, and he stood silent for a moment. Sansa had many people who would fight and die for her honor, even at a court where she was a suspected murderer. The favor of an heiress could mean titles, lands, anything, once she was free to reclaim Winterfell.

"Shall I bring a message for you?" he asked her quietly, finally understanding. "Shall I call your husband to your aid?"

Sansa was quiet. She thought carefully, but the answer was already there.

"No. He will not help me." When it was Sansa versus Cersei, she knew on whose side her husband would stand. Littlefinger should have known, too. But Sansa knew who would come to her, no matter the obstacles, as much as he might despise her.

"I want you to send a message to my brother."

"Your brother? You mean...Lord Tyrion? I'm sorry, I cannot allow this, he is held captive too, and I have not the gold in the world to reach him."

"Not him, my trueborn brother. Send a message to Jon at the Wall."

Petyr's eyes widened briefly, and then from his tunic he drew a short quill and a scrap of parchment. "And what shall it say, my lady?"

* * *

><p>Jaime sat in the officer's tent, sweating slightly. Stannis would be at the crick that night, if their information had been correct.<p>

"Make sure the men are ready," he told his squire. "Tell the captains to let them drink and make merry while the sun is up, but at sunset we mount for the river." The young man nodded and rode away. Jaime sat at his low table, counting forces and measuring his odds.

The sound of hooves drew his attention. Someone was riding hard towards him, and he stood and opened the flap to his tent. A chestnut was flying to him, a messenger from south. He waited until they were close enough for him to see their banner.

It was blank. There was no symbol to it. It was merely a green flag.

The rider stumbled from the horse, calling for him. Jaime moved forward and signaled one of his guards to check him. They roughly patted him down and declared him unarmed. Jaime still kept his distance, but his interest had been caught.

"Might I help you?" he asked dryly. The messenger, breathless, thrust a scroll at him. He nodded to his own bannerman to take it.

"My lady requests your presence at court, lord Jaime," said the man quickly. "Your wife is in danger." Jaime raised his eyebrows, and turned to his bannerman.

"It says that Cersei's son has been killed, my lord!" gasped the bannerman. "Your wife is held captive in the dungeons until her trial, alongside your brother's, is completed! There is no seal or signet."

"Who is your lady?" asked Jaime, his focus entirely on the slender man in front of him. "Who brings me this message?" He was sure he'd get one from Cersei soon, and wondered if this man was a legitimate source. But the man drew tall and bowed, recovering his breath.

"She will not be written, so as to throw her in jeopardy," said the man firmly, explaining the lack of signature. "But my lady is the young queen Margaery Tyrell."

* * *

><p>Yay! Managed to get another chapter up before I leave this week! haha so if I don't post for the next 2-4 weeks, please don't be worried, it means my internet connection is shitty. But I'll still be writing, so after approximately a month I might throw up several chapters at once.<p> 


	14. Judgement

So um...I've been sitting on this chapter for a while. SO sorry guys, my summer was absolutely atrociously busy and I didn't even want to LOOK at my documents. But fear not, I'm not abandoning you :)

Disclaimer: Jaime and Sansa are not mine.

OH! Also it'd been brought to my attention that the Hound peaced when Joff died in the books? I knew he left, but I wasn't sure exactly how soon after...so I tweaked the story a little bit. Author's privilege heh heh

* * *

><p>They expected to present a broken woman to the Royal Court.<p>

Sansa Stark was the vision of the tormented soul, her suffering pure and exquisite. Though her gown was ragged about her, her head was high and her face was clean. She looked neither right nor left as she approached the towering stands where members of the court loomed high above her. Her face was neither contrite nor impudent.

Cersei's lip curled as she was confronted by this person of perfect control. Her catlike eyes, so exactly like her brother's, measured this slender young girl's worth and found a begrudging respect for the quiet courage she found.

But it wouldn't satisfy her.

"Sansa Lannister, you have been summoned to the Royal Court to account for the heinous crime of murder, the victim being King Joffrey the Innocent." The speaker was High Priest Hamle, the eldest and wisest of the spiritual court. Sansa regarded him with equal parts resignation and awe.

'_Great_,' she sighed in her head. '_He's already got a nice little title, and one that further incriminates me. This should go wonderfully_.'

"You have been reported by many a witness to have been holding the cup upon which the gentle king choked, as well as maintaining a jovial attitude immediately following this gruesome event. How do you plead?"

Sansa bowed her head in thought and momentary prayer. "I plead guilty to the reports, High Priest. I plead guilty to holding his cup, and my lack of grief was apparent, but I did not kill the king." The crowd murmured; it consisted mostly of the scattered members of court, of the smaller lords and ladies. Sansa stood judged by the Queen Regent, by the Hand, by the most powerful, and it was no comfort. They murmured with each other at her statement.

"You once loved the king, did you not?" cut in Cersei, and Sansa was surprised at the unexpected assistance. But she did not trust the source, and so she did all she could; she blushed and lowered her eyes.

"I did, Your Highness," she replied quietly.

"And you were jealous of the Queen Margaery for replacing you as his bride?" cut Cersei unmercifully. The court murmured again, and Sansa flushed bright pink to her ears in anger. Her eyes were filled with hate when they rose to meet Cersei's, but the woman was unshaken.

"I was glad for her," she said in a calm, albeit shaky voice. "I love Queen Margaery dearly, and I was happy to have her join the Royal household. Joffrey and I ended our relationship before her arrival, and maintained on good terms." It wasn't a lie, technically. Joffrey had been more than friendly towards her, and though disgusted, Sansa had never become hostile towards him.

"So you say," replied Cersei sweetly, and she sat back to watch her words damage Sansa. Everybody in the courtroom was whispering about the heartbroken girl who killed the man she'd loved in a moment of jealousy.

"Love is indeed a forgivable passion," eased High Priest Hamle. "If such was the case, Lady Lannister, then I am sure that this good court will understand. We have all been young, and in love once." His ancient brow raised and Sansa saw where her cards were stacked. He was trying to get her to plead guilty of a fit of passion, so he could ship her off to the Wall or a nunnery. But Cersei would never abide that. Cersei would see her dead, she knew.

"I am afraid not, High Priest," she said firmly. "I once loved the king, many years ago, but it has been a long time. I love my husband now, as a good and true wife should." Sansa couldn't even tell if she was lying anymore. She hated Jaime with all of her heart, but she grieved at the thought that he might never come back to her. But what did she know of love? She had thought Joffrey loved her, and he killed her father.

"Yes, yes…a good and true wife, you said? We have somebody here who might plead differently." He turned and Sansa's mouth opened in a small _oh_! when they brought Redrick in.

"Sansa was the wife of my heart, she told me," said the man who had once claimed to love her. "I of course was devastated when she married Ser Jaime, but I had already given her up. She came to me with her hair undone, and told me she still loved me, but I said 'Sansa! My love! I adore you more than the sweet air of the Maiden's breath, but you are a married woman now!"

Sansa's ears burned at the devastating words dripping from the singer's mouth like poison. She could not tear her eyes from him, sure that he could feel her betrayal, but he never once looked at her. His deep blue eyes stared up at the Queen, at the members of the court. He looked for all the world an innocent young singer; it had been that look to which Sansa had been drawn, his cherubic features.

"I couldn't resist her, in the end. Who could? She's so lovely, so beautiful, my maiden of the North. My enchantress, to hold such power over me. I don't know if Sansa loves the king or her husband. I don't even know if she loves me; but, my lords and ladies, she did for one night." His face was so wistful and romantic that she could have cheerfully shredded it with her nails, but the court looked bought. He was nodded away and Sansa briefly wondered who had bribed him, and what her cost had been.

"It appears your love is rather cheaply bought, my lady," said Cersei snidely. "My, my, your husband, your king, _and_ a singer? And everybody says the North is cold…"

She should have been penalized for such a comment, but since she was the queen everybody chuckled politely. Sansa could have been close to tears if she wasn't so icy inside. They froze up and became her daggers.

"Yes, it is not infrequent that one battles between love for my husband Jaime and one's king." She directed the comment at Cersei and had a brief moment of satisfaction as the queen turned white with rage. But she kept her queenly mouth tightly closed. Sansa, however, paid for that comment.

"So you do confess to loving the king alongside your husband?" pressed the priest, and Sansa realized her mistake and bowed her head slightly.

"As a brother, High Priest," she said demurely. "As a friend," she corrected. '_Joffrey could never compare to my brothers. I would not shame Robb and Bran and Rickon with such a companion_.'

"But you said you battled," wheedled the high priest, and Sansa sighed with silent frustration. "That implies a certain competitiveness…"

"I misspoke," burst Sansa impatiently, "I do not love the king."

"Indeed," murmured the priest. "I would like to call the young Margaery Tyrell to speak."

Sansa's jaw dropped as her friend, dressed in the loveliest of cream gowns, mounted the stone stairs and sat in the cold chair above her. She looked radiant in a headdress of silver flowers.

"I…I spoke often with Sansa, as a friend of course. We are very close, you see, and she's spent much time riding with us and sitting in the Maidenvault with my cousins and I. They are so distraught, they could not bring themselves to come to the trial, Most Holy. I apologize for them; they simply couldn't believe that their closest friend would do such a terrible thing." Margaery's voice was hoarse with crying, her eyes still a little bit red. Her brown eyes met Sansa's blue for a few moments before the continued. "But…it is true, she had little love for my Joff. She spoke often of her distaste for him, of her pity for me which I could not understand. I believe it was a distaste born and bred of bitterness, my lords. It is not her fault. It is simply…Joffrey did not love her, and so she no longer could love him."

Sansa nearly broke there, nearly crumpled in a heap of tears and despair. Her lip quivered, but she grew cold all over and she was a Stark again. She stood by impassively as Margaery continued accounts of where Sansa had made derogatory remarks towards their king.

Margaery stared at the High Court for the rest of her statement. Sansa wished that she would look at her friend again, because one look would tell the young Tyrell that her friendship with the Starks had ended. If Sansa made it out alive, the first thing she would do would be to invade Highgarden.

But at the end, Margaery did meet her eyes. Her lustrous, tear-filled eyes touched Sansa's, and all of the anger washed out of her. There was something she couldn't understand, but an unspoken word passed between them and she let her go.

"Do we need more evidence?" asked the High Priest slowly. "Or are you prepared to confess what happened?" The court held its breath; whether or not Sansa was truly innocent, it was hard for them to swallow. And Sansa knew that should she deny a confession, they would march out another batch of witnesses to some heinous thing she'd done.

So she tossed back her hair and met the court with fiery eyes.

"I can see you have no fair trial for me today," she said coolly, her blue eyes almost grey with frost. "I do not know which friends of mine will step forward and fight for me in words. I have few friends here, I know that for sure. But I am confident that somebody will step forward and defend me with their sword."

Cersei laughed, a shrill, triumphant sound. "You dare call upon my brother?" she shrieked derisively. "He is a member of the Kingsguard. To defend you means to turn his back on his dead king, his _kin_, as well as his expulsion from the court. He would be _killed_, you stupid girl!" Her face was so smug, so sure in its success.

"Jaime is not a member of the Kingsguard," said Sansa, "not since the moment we were wed. Besides, he is not the man of which I spoke. My brother is coming to defend my honor, should the court allow him time for travel."

"Your brothers are _dead_!" screamed Cersei in a moment of rage. "You are mad! _They're all dead_!" Sansa didn't flinch in the face of the enraged queen. She simply smiled, an empty, clever smile.

"I still have one if you don't recall, sweet Queen. He will be coming from much farther north than Winterfell I'm afraid, so we must give him time."

The court erupted in cries of delight or anger. Her judges sat silently amongst them, each regarding her with cold calculation. Slowly the room subsided and it was quiet for a few moments.

"You are indeed entitled to a trial by combat," said the high priest reluctantly. "Queen Cersei, who will stand in for the dead king?" All heads turned to her but there was no hesitation.

"The Hound, Sandor Clegane of course," she said smoothly. "We'll see how the wolf pup fares against him, won't we."

Sansa tried not to imagine her slender brother fighting Joffrey's giant dog. The last time she'd seen Jon, he'd hardly been taller than she. She hoped that in these last few years he'd gained more than a few inches, like Robb. But she didn't allow Cersei to see her reaction to this.

"Your trial, then, will be held seven days from this night," decided the priest. Sansa bit her lip uncomfortably; they were cutting the travel terribly close for her brother, but she didn't say anything. The gods would help her. "Until then you will return to your state of confinement-"

"In the dungeons?" spat Sansa loudly, so that all might hear. "I had thought that the daughter of a lord, the heiress to Winterfell, might earn a higher respect than that. But if you disagree, by all means tuck me back away. I'd rather dine with the rats than with lords of such dishonor."

"You're a _traitor_ with a claim she hasn't yet earned," snarled Cersei. "Even your lord father was a traitor. You can rot in the dungeons alongside him."

"My trial has not yet proven me guilty," replied Sansa with dignity. "I am neither guilty nor innocent as of this moment, sweet, forgetful Queen." Cersei looked for a moment as though she was about to fly at Sansa, her talons bared. But after a brief flash of rage in her sparkling green eyes, she settled back and examined her with contempt.

"Fine. You shall have your rooms, little harlot, and I hope you enjoy them. These shall be your last nights in my Palace." Cersei swept from the rooms in a flash of gold. Two large guards came to escort her to her rooms, but Sansa did not need to be restrained. She went with them as quietly as any lady of her status should.

It was shallow of her to want her own rooms, but deep in the dungeons all she could think about was her father's time there, and how it ended with his head on the wall. For some reason it felt like a curse to stay there any longer.

She almost laughed at how Cersei did not order her to Jaime's rooms, which by right as his wife would be hers too. Instead she was given the room she'd stayed in as a charge and hostage, the rooms she'd had when she was an unmarried girl.

It didn't matter anyways. Sansa sat on her neat bed, listening as they slammed the bolt shut in her door. It would be better here, where she could see when the sun came up and down and entertain herself with her things.

Time still dragged on as she waited for the seventh day, for any news of her brother's arrival. There was the ugly side of her gamble, where Jon didn't arrive, but should that occur, she was confident that somebody would step forward. Winterfell might be cold, but her lands were rich in property, game, and titles. She was sure any knight would offer her his sword for the chance of being a lord in a handsome castle, perhaps even at the hope of wedding her and becoming a lord over the entire realm.

But she doubted the fire of ambition. Though Petyr had failed her mother, she believed that true love could persevere over any obstacle, be it brotherly or that of a lover. The hope and innocence that once lived inside of her would not leave her at a time such as this.

The sun moved slowly across the sky, so slowly, and it sank with equal measures of sloth. Sansa grew listless; at the beginning of her imprisonment she had sewn, sang, drawn, and done all she could to keep herself occupied.

As the days wore on she could only sit at her window and watch the sky. The sun burned a path through the milky blue but at night she was comforted by the silent silver moon, the serenading of the crickets. The air had a high autumn chill to it, and yet they persisted in their song.

Days passed, marked by Sansa in her small leather-bound book, but still no one brought her news of her brother. She sat drumming her fingers against the sill of her great window, her eyes wandering the billions of lustrous stars.

Sansa's heart thudded deep in her chest, marking every moment she waited alone. It thudded the arrival of her trial, a fixed battle she would have to face alone if nobody came to her rescue. Her hand touched her pale, slender neck for a moment as she imagined how it would temper against Ilyn Payne's sword. Would it be soft, like fine cloth? Would it snap like a blade of grass?

There was a scuffling sound outside of Sansa's door. She sat bolt upright, her eyes wide and her heart pounding in terror. '_She's done it! Cersei has sent somebody to finish me off before my trial!_'

A low grunt, the sound of a body hitting a wall. Sansa squeaked in fear and raced to the back of her room. She grabbed a small stool by its legs and stepped forward cautiously. She wished that she was in Jaime's room, equipped with his extensive armory. She trembled slightly but her grasp tightened on the stool.

The door burst open, and there stood Jon.

Sansa dropped the stool in surprise, her breath leaving her for a moment. He had grown so tall and handsome, his dark hair sleek against his pale face. The black cloak hung with easy grace from rather broad shoulders. She faced not the callow boy of her memories, but a grown man of the Watch.

"Jon," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Her mouth trembled with love, apology, exquisite agony at how similar he looked to their deceased father. But all she could manage was one more word before collapsing into tears. "Jon!"

He came to her as any true brother would. His brown eyes lit with concern and he leapt all obstacles with extreme grace, bounding to her and enfolding her gently in his arms. She cried hard into his night-dark cloak.

"I heard about father," he told her, his voice so much deeper than she had remembered. "I heard about Robb, and mother, and Rickon and Bran. I heard about Arya, about Hodor, and Theon Greyjoy. I know about everything, Sansa. The world has taken everything that I've given up."

She clutched him tight to her, trying not to be distressed at the tearless tone of his voice. But then, suddenly, it deepened in anger. "But I'd be damned if my only living relative was in danger and I could finally _do_ something about it."

"Then…they know you've left? They know why?" she asked, drawing back her head a little. He smiled grimly.

"If they knew I'd left because of family matters, they'd hunt me down. No man leaves the Watch, and even if I intended to return, I'd still have put something above the importance of it. No, they think I'm recruiting, and even if messages come in I'm much too high ranking for them to speak differently."

Sansa couldn't find words. Her mouth failed her, and all she could do was stare at her brother, the brother she once despised, so tall and handsome and brave. Her chin quivered as she finally opened to somebody who would understand her.

She cried all night, holding onto Jon. Through her tears she told him about Joffrey, about how he touched her and told her horrible things. She told him about how they forced her to marry Jaime, how he'd promised to bring her back, took her maidenhead and left her. She told him about her one source of light, Margaery. But, mostly, she told him about Jaime.

He listened with endless grace and patience. The only reactions he let leave him were squeezes of his hands on her back. They trembled when she talked about Joffrey, and she knew he wished he'd killed the young king himself. They stroked her comfortingly when she spoke of Margaery. But when she told him about her forced marriage, about Jaime's brutality, they squeezed so hard that her breath left her for a moment. But he apologized in a low voice and waited for her to speak again. Finally, in the quietest whisper she had, she told him about Jaime and Cersei.

"But you're here," she breathed tearfully. "Somebody came to get me. And now we'll go home, finally, finally, Jon!" The hope and joy was overpowering after so long a time of grief.

"I have to return to the Wall," he told her gently. "I will bring you back to Winterfell, I promise. But you truly are the heiress, Sansa, and it is yours alone. I cannot help you once you're there. You'll have to do things on your own once we pass the gates." She was sad that her only living brother could not stay with her, but she knew he'd have to return. She nodded solemnly and gave a rather un-Sansalike cutting smile.

"There is much to be learned from watching a good ruler," she told him evenly. "And more to be learned from being a bad one. I suppose I can do fairly well after watching the worst king in history for as long as I have." Jon laughed at that and tousled her long reddish hair.

"I knew court would make you clever," he said fondly, and she smirked and slapped his hand away. But she remembered how vapid and shallow she had once been, and sighed in acceptance. "But I knew it could never take your goodness from you."

"I was always so terrible to you," she said suddenly, feeling guilty. The corners of her mouth turned down as she finally faced her lost brother. "I…I thought you wouldn't come. I thought I'd been so awful to you that now, when you were strong and I was weak, you wouldn't come to me." The confession felt good, but Jon's brow knit.

"That's silly," he said quietly. His hand came up and touched her cheek, wiping her eyes carefully of tears. "You were just a little girl, nothing you said could hurt me. You might not have thought me your brother, but believe me when I say you've always been my little sister, as superficial as you may have been."

"Thank you," she said quietly. His arms around her, encircling her protectively, made Sansa feel the safest she'd been since she arrived at King's Landing. She clung tightly to her brother, her breath soft in the still air. She was tired, but couldn't quite sleep. "Are you afraid?"

"No more than you are," he replied just as gently. "Have faith in me, little sister. I will not let them hurt you anymore."

And Sansa believed him wholly. Her eyes closed and she nestled in her brother's arms as she slept more peacefully than she could ever remember.

The next morning, four palace guards came to get Sansa. She noticed that they treated her with significantly more respect when she had her silently fuming brother with her. Perhaps it was the absolute distaste in his eyes whenever someone in the Lannister colors approached them. Either way, they made sure to give him and the sword he slung around his hip a wide berth when they reached Sansa.

"Lady Lannister, your trial is about to begin," said one of the guards humbly. "If you would please..."

She nodded and walked with the first guard, her head high as she bathed in the sound of her brother's angry steps behind her. Despite her confidence in his protection, she still felt a flutter of nerves as they entered the courtyard. The Hound was a large, strong, experienced man; could Jon defend her? Or would this be the end of the Stark bloodline?

Her eyes greeted the queen with a chilling glance. Cersei's eyes were bright red with grief, and for only a moment she almost pitied the terribly sad woman. But then Cersei's mouth tightened into a snarl, and Sansa knew she could never forgive her.

The courtyard was filled with members of the court, royal guests, guards, and all who cared to watch. Even peasants who hungrily followed the trial dangled over the stone walls, mixed curiosity and loathing in their gazes. Sansa paled slightly at the amount of people in the smallish yard. She tried not to wonder where Ilyn Payne was.

"Is this your champion?" asked the High Priest, gesturing towards her tall brother. Sansa's mouth opened and her hand found its way into the crook of Jon's arm.

"No."

The voice wasn't hers. She whirled around, confused, until she saw someone handsome and golden behind her. Her mouth still hung open as Jaime Lannister strode quickly to her side.

"I am."

The courtyard seemed to explode with the force of rage and disbelief. Peasants howled with surprise, Cersei Lannister nearly crumpled and fell, and the High Priest struggled in vain to regain control. Sansa could only stare as he faced the enraged crowd, his chin high and his glittering green eyes tight with courage. He looked every part the hero; his golden armor, still spattered with blood as though he'd ridden straight from battle, reflected brighter than the sun. Sansa couldn't move, so filled with wonder was she.

_THWACK_!

Jon had moved too fast for Sansa's suddenly slowed perception of time. She jerked out of her trance, staring in surprise at her brother who now towered over a figure on the ground. Before the could remember what he'd done to her before he left, she ran and dropped to Jaime's side. Her husband's gloved hand was at his mouth, from which a stream of blood leaked.

"Sansa! _Get away from him_!" roared Jon, his fists tight. His dark eyes were hard; Sansa feared he might do something very rash in this moment. Her arm flew protectively across Jaime's chest, and then moved slowly back as her confused mind sorted through where she stood with him at the moment.

"Don't, Jon," she pleaded, her hand lifting as her brother drew his sword. "Please, please don't! Just...just wait!" She remembered what had happened, what Jaime had told her...how he'd treated her. She withdrew from his side reluctantly, but her eyes were caught in his. He had come back for her...she didn't know how, or why, but he had come to stand with her against his own family.

"He loves me," she whispered tearfully. Her hand pressed Jon's wrist until the sword lowered. "He loves me."

"That's not good enough," hissed Jon coldly. "He's not good for you, Sansa! Look at what he did to you..." Sansa flinched. Jon knew everything, of course. He had heard it from her own mouth. Nothing had changed; he had lied to her, betrayed her trust, mistreated her...but she couldn't let her brother just kill him.

"I know. I'm not forgiving him," she said slowly. "But you can't kill him here. I'm already on trial for killing the king, you can't kill the queen's brother!" Jon's breath slowed a little as he realized the truth to her words. But he turned and pointed his sword at Jaime Lannister, who was very still on the ground, propped onto his elbows. To his credit, the lion didn't flinch.

"I will deal with you when I am done here," said Jon in a low, threatening voice. "You will not touch my sister again, I promise you that." Jaime clambered to his feet, not bothering to brush the grass from his tangled locks.

"I have no words for you," said Jaime quietly. "but that you will not defeat Sandor Clegane. He was Joffrey's finest sword, and has twice your age and more. He will kill you quickly." Sansa and Jon both flushed a little at the dry diagnosis, but she didn't need speak.

"What makes you so sure you could win, then?" huffed Jon. He still stared with open dislike, but understood the weight of Jaime's words. Sansa could almost have laughed when her cheeky husband smiled.

"Because I am Cersei's finest sword, and I have defeated him before." His confidence was very near to being reassuring, but Jon had a way of sealing corners. He still pointed with his sword, as though he still intended to kill Sansa's lover.

"Before or after you lost your sword hand, Ser?" he asked coolly. Jaime flinched slightly, and lifted his golden hand enough to look at it with disgust. He stared for more than a few moments; the courtyard had begun to settle down, and now they tried desperately to hear of what the small group spoke. Sansa tried not to look at Cersei; she couldn't imagine the queen's fury.

"If I lose," said Jaime throatily, still staring at the hand. "Then you need to get her out of here." Sansa's shocked gasped cut in the clear air. Jon looked as though he would say something, but quieted at the intensity of his sister's emotion. Sansa felt as though the world was draining out from beneath her feet. She moved to him, silently thanking her brother as he merely stepped aside. Her hands found Jaime's face, and she cradled it tenderly. His glowing eyes were only for her.

"Why?" she cried hoarsely, trying not to feel anything. "Why are you doing this?" Her hands caressed his face, and he leaned briefly into her gentle embrace, sighing and closing his eyes. He smiled lightly, as though it was all he had ever wanted in the world. When his eyes opened again, they were frozen over with deadly intention. Her hands held onto his neck, keeping him there with her for as long as she could.

"Lannister's defend their own," he murmured, his fingers brushing across her belly. He smiled sadly, leaned forward, and drew a short, sweet kiss from her that still left her breathless. He stepped back and exchanged a long look with Jon before drawing his sword in his left hand.

"If it looks like I'm going to lose, take her and kill as many as you need to get out. The crowd should be thin and cowardly by the south gates, and the commoners will try to stop you...but won't be armed. It will be easy."

"Why don't we just run now?" asked Jon in a low, urgent voice. Jaime laughed and tucked his godlike loveliness away beneath a golden helmet.

"Because I must defend my lady's honor!"

Sansa couldn't tell if he was joking anymore as he turned and walked to his certain death.

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><p>Okay, I'M SORRY if there are mistakes. They're going to happen, I unfortunately forgot to bring the books back to school with me...be grateful hahaha<p>

Also, sorry for the lemon. I know for a fact some of you are going to scream about abusive relationships and yeah, it's true, their relationship is kind of messed up. But hey, they're hard to get out of for a reason, ya know? This isn't SUPPOSED to be a perfect world.


	15. Free

Disclaimer: I don't own Song of Ice and Fire :)

WOAH UPDATE!

So...is it weird that the longer I take to update, the less I want to look at my new reviews? It doesn't make sense, they usually motivate me to write more, but for some reason I feel like you're all going to start getting hostile one day heh...heheh...

O-O

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><p>Jaime tried hard not to look at Cersei. She was still struggling to stay on her feet, one hand over her mouth and the other clasped tightly around one of her personal guards. It was one of the dirty dark-haired ones, with a hooked nose and eyes Jaime didn't quite like. He struggled to stare bravely at the council, and to ignore the muffled, agonized sounds coming from his twin.<p>

The High Priest looked patiently to Cersei, but it appeared that the queen was too torn to speak. They waited uncomfortably for much too long before Jaime saw Loras Tyrell run quickly to his sister, who sat red-eyed beside Tommen, the rising young king, her brother-in-law. His brow furrowed as they had a quick but fierce dispute, their voices much too low and their mouths barely moving. He saw young Margaery's shoulders shake with silent tears as she pulled her brother to her and kissed his chestnut curls. Jaime's mouth turned down. There was too much grief here.

Margaery stood, her eyes cold and distant. She showed Jaime no signs of familiarity, nor kindness. He wondered if she had indeed sent for him.

"As the queen is indisposed, I will accept the terrible mantle. My brother Loras is willing to prove to the world that my husband was brutally murdered by one who once sought refuge in the king's own castle." Her expression did not change as Sansa gasped in hurt disbelief, as Jaime flushed darkly.

Jaime's fair skin burned red with resignation and embarrassment. If it had been the Hound, he would have died quickly, yes, but it would have been at the hand of a giant of a man. True, Jaime had often used a greatsword; his left hand had played a supporting role at a sword, and he had been dutifully practicing with Ilyn Payne, but he doubted that his short time fighting left handed could possibly compete with Loras, a callow boy but one who had been fighting with his strong hand for over twelve years. Now Jaime would suffer the humiliation of dying quickly at the hands of a wet-eared youth, a boy nearly young enough to be his son.

He, the Lion of Lannister, slayed by a Rose. Jaime shivered and glanced towards his wife. Sansa stood at the corner of the yard where he'd told her to go, her hands clasped tightly and her lips set in a grim line. He was glad to see that her eyes were dry; as young as she was, she was a strong woman indeed. And he had a duty to her.

Sighing, Jaime stepped forward and bowed. But, to his surprise, Cersei's voice burst around him.

"High Priest, please! Please let me speak with my brother! I have already lost so much..." her voice was ripe with panic and loss, but Jaime's hackles raised nonetheless. So much for believing in her own brother...

"I will allow a moment, your Majesty," said the Priest generously to the Queen Regent. Cersei did not run to her brother. She lifted her skirt slightly and walked slowly towards him, her head bowed and her hands trembling. When she reached him though, her hands flew to his face, her eyes lifting to meet his. Green on green, they stood together.

"Don't," she pleaded quietly, tears forming in her red eyes. The corners of her mouth quivered as she stroked his cheeks, his hair, ran her thumbs over the soft lids of his eyes. "Please, Jaime, please don't do this. I couldn't lose you too."

"I find that very difficult to believe," he murmured, feeling no pity for her. She really should have foreseen this, if she wasn't such a hotheaded fool. Her face crumpled slightly, but she managed to maintain what little composure she had left.

"I _love you_," she hissed with quiet passion. Her grasp tightened in his golden curls. "You _know_ that! You're my brother, my knight, my _lover_!" Her voice grew low, and for some reason Jaime felt bitterness filling his throat.

"You're ashamed of me, you've always been ashamed of me," he replied tersely. "Even here, where I might die, you can't let anybody know you love me. You never could." His voice grew louder as he got angrier. Cersei drew away slightly, her anxious eyes darting left and right. His left hand reached forward to tighten on her cheeks, to pull her face mere inches from his. She started in fright, but he held her carefully as he spoke to her. "Do you want to know why I protect Sansa, my love, my Cersei?"

Abruptly he turned from her and strode to his wife. The guards' hands flew to their swords, but they glanced uneasily at each other as they were faced with the possibility of striking down their beloved captain. They hadn't needed to worry; Jaime strode smoothly to Sansa and cupped her face gently in his hand.

"Sansa, do you love me?" he asked her quietly, his eyes intense. Sansa's lips quivered as she teared for the first time. He stroked her skin with his thumb, tightened his fingers in her long mahogany hair. "Sansa, tell me." His voice grew soft, gentle. Her hand raised to rest on top of his. He felt her brother shifting irritably beside her, but she didn't move her eyes from his. He could have drowned in the rich depths of her blue eyes.

"I love you," she whispered, her brow furrowed. One hand clasped his wrist, as though dreading his departure. Another dipped down to touch her stomacher. He grimaced and leaned forward to kiss her deeply. Jon was snarling beside her, but Sansa was lost. Her hands flew to his hair, pulling him to her. She was wild with fright and confusion, holding him to her as if he was her lifeline.

"Louder," he groaned against her lips. Her teeth bared in what could have been a smile, and he could feel her words reverberating against his mouth, against his skin.

"I love you," she cried, a few tears trickling now. "I _love_ you, _I love you_!" He kissed her once more, firmly on her sweet mouth, before turning back to face his sister. Cersei's face was crumpled in fury, grief, shame...and inexplicably, envy. Jaime didn't have the time anymore to dissect her emotions; he strode towards the very center of the courtyard, where he would be put out of his misery by a callow boy.

Drawing his sword with his left hand, he entered the center of the small arena. Court officials and guests alike gathered tightly around the edges of the ring, the most dangerous and yet the most desired of views. He wondered if Sansa was going to watch.

He smiled grimly as Loras, seeing his opponent unable to carry a shield, threw his own aside. His eyes glinted bold as he threw back his brown locks, acknowledging Jaime. The Lion's head bowed very slightly as he prepared to fight.

Jaime's senses quickened as the bloodlust took him. Loras moved as though in slow motion, heavy through thick water. He knew the positioning of the boy's sword, the motion of his feet; Loras aimed for a strong blow from above, after which he could only move to Jaime's right in hopes to surpass the sword. The muscles of Jaime's left arm tightened grudgingly, and he wondered if they would be strong enough.

The sing of metal brought the music back to his soul. A joyful breath blew from his throat as he countered both strikes, but he immediately felt the price; fatigue would come quickly to his less practiced arm. Sharp pain from the contact already laced all the way to his shoulder.

Loras was fast, but Jaime's senses were faster, trained through battle. Unfortunately, Jaime's left arm was not up to the challenge of keeping pace with his eyes and reflexes; he found himself dodging a whirling takedown, instead of aiming for the easy strike of moving closer.

His breath grew ragged, but he could not fail. Loras's sword skimmed his right shoulder as Jaime blocked too short, and searing pain burst Jaime's concentration. He struggled, now, to deflect the blows.

_Red-brown hair against the stark green of the meadow, her laughter, the music of her smile, the innocence she had saved for so long._

_Big freckles, a broad face, build like a stack of blocks. He promised her..._

Sweat dripped into his eyes as Jaime felt his strength begin to fail. _Is this what if felt like, to be the men I've killed? How terrible._ He drew lungfuls of throaty gasps, felt it expel in bursts of fatigue as he used his short reservoir of energy.

Jaime drew himself together for the final plunge of effort. His trembling muscles tightened, his adrenaline spiked, and he knew that this would be the moment of truth.

* * *

><p>'<em>This isn't right<em>,' thought Jon as he watched the tall but crippled man walk to his death. '_It should be me walking out there. Loras is going to chop him to pieces._' Jon was sure that his own training would have at least put him on an equal plane with this youth, but once the swordfight began, he suddenly knew that he had been wrong.

"This...this is insane!" he murmured in a low voice. His hand was around his sister, but he had forgotten her role in the trial. "Loras's talent is incredible, I've never seen anyone so fast!" Sansa was a wolf, and she had hidden her tears again, but he felt the tremor shake her body when he spoke. Suddenly remembering that Loras faced her husband, he pulled her tight to him again.

"Jaime will win," whispered Sansa fiercely, her grip tightening on her brother. "He has to." Jon was startled by the cold strength in his most sensitive sibling. He had left Sansa as an air-headed, slightly snotty sister and returned to find her as hard and beautiful as any woman of the Stark breed. He felt sad; her dreams and fantasies had clearly died a long time ago.

John could barely tear his eyes from the fight. Sansa could be right; though Jaime was clearly not as skilled with his left hand as Loras was with his right, he was incredibly agile and seemed to be able to predict which moves the younger man was choosing. The fluidity of his motion was unparalleled. But the Lannister was clearly losing strength, while Loras seemed to be grasping his second wind.

Sansa was very still; she jolted once as Loras's swing shaved the mail from Jamie's arm. It would be over much too quickly; Jon glanced around the room and prepared himself for the worse.

"Jaime's going to win," whispered Sansa, her grip tightening. Jon huffed in irritation; had he been wrong about his naive young sister after all? He grasped her hand impatiently in his.

"Sansa, we need to figure out how to get out of here," he hissed back beneath his breath. The guards, he could probably take out with ease. They were very involved in the fight, concerned for their commander. The others though...but Sansa jerked his arm suddenly.

"No Jon, _he's going to win_!" she cried breathlessly. Jon turned, startled. What on earth had he missed?

But the young flower of Tyrell was slowing; his strikes were considerably more labored, his motion slowed. Jon was confused. He had been running so strong only moments before, the older man showing clear signs of inevitable defeat. It struck Jon a moment late. _'He's letting the Lannister win!_'

Jon saw it then; the cool confidence in the young queen Margaery, the smoothly defensive position her brother began to take. They were master players in this game, as silently in sync as any pair on earth. Margaery had changed her plans suddenly, and Loras had without communication known what she wanted. Jon was amazed with their connection.

"I see now," he murmured to Sansa quietly, excitedly. "Loras lets Jaime win, making it look like a legitimate defeat. Jaime will know too; he's fought enough before to recognize his opponents like this. Jaime will allow Loras to live out of the goodness of his heart, and the court will be so touched that they will pardon you both and allow you to leave." He was stunned with the elegance of the operation, the absolute unorchestrated perfection of it. Sansa saw now, too; Loras appeared to be breathing with difficulty, and his escapes were convincing, but he was extremely light on his feet for one so seemingly exhausted.

"Yes," she gasped, relaxing into Jon's side. "Thank the gods!" He felt the tension ease from her body as she realized that she would not lose anybody tonight. Jon struggled not too appear too overjoyed.

The battle was culminating. Loras appeared to be on his last threads, and Jaime's strikes were surer and surer against Loras's blade. Finally, with a ringing blow, the golden Lion struck the very sword from the flower's hand; Loras's steel went flying across the courtyard, leaving the young lad unarmed.

Jon's eyes flew to Margaery; though still calm, she had flinched visibly at the sound.

All was silent, and it was as though Jaime moved in slow motion. Jon could see his face perfectly; humility, pride, passion, disdain...they all contorted across his fine features into a monstrous grimace. There was the slightest hesitation as Jaime approached his fallen foe and his fallen comrade.

A heartbeat passed with Loras powerful and helpless at Jaime's feet. In that heartbeat, Jon's breath caught in his throat as he realized one fatal flaw in Margaery's plan. Nobody controlled the Lion.

Jaime's left hand drew back and he raked his steel claw across Loras Tyrell's neck.

"_Jaime_!" a scream tore from Sansa's throat as she fell to her knees, shaking with horror. Nothing, though, compared to the scream that ripped from Margaery as though she had been gutted. Jon had never seen anything so terrible as Margaery's face, not as he held his retching sister. Cheeks flushed, hair undone, tears dripped from her eyes and mouth. Her hands clawed the floor, even as her handmaidens tried to pull her to her feet.

"Monster! _Monster_!" she shrieked, even as Jaime walked away from her. "_Somebody kill him_!" Her guards did not move, and Jon felt himself look to Cersei; the old queen had a queer expression of contempt, of smug despair. She had known, too, then.

"He won, little fool," snapped Cersei, forcefully pulling the young queen to her feet. "There's nothing you can do."

Jon had to work hard to refrain from attacking Jaime as he strode towards them. Once they were beyond the gates, once they were on their way to Winterfell...then, he would be free to cut the Lannister's throat in his sleep.

"Let's go," said Jaime brusquely, not touching either of them. Sansa rushed after him, not saying a word. Jon followed, drawing his sword just in case they were followed. Lannister could be taken care of later; right now he had to get Sansa safely out of the palace.

They could still hear the screams of the queen behind them.

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><p>It seemed a dream, that she was riding from the nightmare that had been her life for so long. Jaime had taken his golden mare, she her black, and Jon rode a swift bay beside them both. None spoke a word.<p>

Loras Tyrell's lovely curls, spinning about his head as Jaime took it from his slender shoulders. Sansa shuddered violently. It was so similar, so very similar to that day so long ago...

He was a Lannister, why had she expected anything different from him? Flakes of snow swirled about them as they rode, Jaime's six personal guards galloping behind them. Lannister red flew from their banners. Sansa wanted to vomit at the sight of them. She would have to change Lady's trappings when they returned.

It seemed an eternity, flying across the plains. But finally they slowed; horses tired and the path too dark, they had to make camp. And then she would have to deal with Jaime.

Their horses slowed to a stop, and all three dismounted resentfully. Sansa's feet barely touched the ground when Jon attacked Jaime. No swords, no shields, just one man's fists against another's. Well, fist.

"You _bastard_," expelled Jon forcefully, landing a hard strike to Jaime's cheek. He was straddling the older man, his fists landing with hard determination. He pounded Jaime rhythmically. "You killed a good man back there! Loras Tyrell did _nothing_ to you!"

Jaime didn't even fight back. He covered his face after the first blow, allowing Jon to absolutely pummel his chest and stomach. He glowered like a wicked cat, but otherwise had no retort. Jon jerked him up by the collar and struck his face again. By this time his guard had dismounted, but they appeared unsure as to whose side they were on. Some moved forward until Sansa shot them a warning look. When Jon was done, she was mightily tempted to have her turn too.

"Just_ tell me_!" snarled Jon. "Tell me exactly _why_ you're such an _evil bastard_!" Jon spat viciously in Jaime's face. Sansa saw her husband's eyes flare bright green before he struck Jon with his hard gold hand. The force of it knocked her brother off of him, but he didn't pursue his prone rival. Instead, he coolly wiped his face and stood.

"I don't owe you an explanation," he growled, dusting the cold mud from his shoulders. He began to turn, but Sansa stepped forward. He hand raised to stay her furious brother.

"No, but I believe you owe me one," she said quietly. Jaime froze, the sneer melting from his handsome features. He stared at her with mixed emotion; there was too much contempt there still, but underneath...

"The fight isn't over," said Jaime instead. He wasn't ignoring her, but he wasn't willing to speak with her either. Sansa gritted her teeth but listened. "Bolton's bastard is holding your castle now. Winterfell is in ruins, along with the Northmen. There is little to return to, but I will take you back. I promised."

"Why did you kill Loras Tyrell?" she ground out, following him when he turned to lift the saddle from his horse. "_Why_?" He ignored her now, forcing her to hound him. She knew that he was well aware of how much that bothered her. She grabbed his arm, but he jerked it sharply from her grasp. She stumbled back, hurt and furious.

"Tell me, _husband_, or I swear we will leave you tonight. Enjoy life as a rogue, because you will have nowhere to run." She stood, all of her cards thrown down. All except for one...one card she held near and dear, for she longed to keep it. But they seemed to be enough. Jaime turned to face her, quiet rage etched across his tight lips.

"I saved your life tonight, _wife_," he spat as spitefully as did she. "You might pay me back with kindness." Sansa barked a laugh, so loud that it echoed in the forest. A wolf howled far away.

"_Kindness_? Since when have _you_ paid back with _kindness_?" she scoffed, throwing up her hands. "It appears that your currency runs on black deceit; according to you, I should pay you back for saving my life with a knife in your sleep."

"Why are you so concerned with Loras Tyrell?" asked Jaime bitterly, turning from her to set up camp. He loosed his roll of blankets from his horse's side, to busy his hands.

"He was Margaery's _brother_!" said Sansa softly. "Margaery, my only friend there! He was as kind to me as any other, as good as any man I'd ever-"

"Ever _what_? Met? _Fancied_? Don't preach to me of Loras's dreamy eyes, _dear wife_, because I would quench life of that parasite again if I could." Sansa stepped around Jaime and met him with a loud _slap_.

She saw the fire again, but Jaime did not raise a hand to her. Instead he set down his load and opened his arms to her. His mouth was curled in a hateful smile.

"You're welcome to join the horde, my lady," he said, his voice chilly. "It seems everybody wants a piece of Jaime Lannister these days. More men than my usual gathering, but my arms are always welcome to the caresses of a lovely woman. Go on, beat me until you feel better. I'm sorry that I could not be your lapdog."

Sansa felt her anger melting away, though she knew better. She could not help but pity him. His bruises looked terrible, but she knew they would be worse by morning. She knew he had suffered through their long ride, barely able to keep his seat. She knew how he suffered. But she could not love him now.

"Go to sleep, my lord," she said coolly but not with hostility. It was dark, and perhaps he would feel more willing to talk in the morning. "I will break my fast with you, and we will discuss what to do next."

"You will not be sleeping with me, then, my wife?" he called as she turned away. She could hear the metallic breath of Jon drawing his sword in rage, but her hand stopped his. She looked deep into her brother's eyes.

"Do not let him aggravate you," she said firmly. "He is very much like his brother Tyrion. Sometimes his mouth speaks before his mind is finished." Jon bared his teeth and reluctantly sheathed his blade.

"I cannot abide his humor," said Jon in a low, fierce voice. "I don't have the temper for it." Jon, her calm, most collected brother, turned to his own horse and began to unpack. Sansa sighed and seated herself by the crackling fire built by Jaime's guardsmen.

It was going to be a long ride back to Winterfell.

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><p>Okay, so I'm SO SORRY these updates are taking so long D:<p>

I'm going to try to bust out another chapter over Thanksgiving break, then we'll see about finals week...I'll either be studying or procrastinating...but on the plus side, you guys have Christmas to look forward to! Plenty of free time then haha

ALSO, I'm trying to decide if Jaime/Sansa's kid (yeah, you're kind of retarded if you haven't guessed by now) will be a boy or a girl, so if you want to throw your two cents in, I'd love to hear it! Though it won't be for a while..still, it might help my decision.

But this chapter is kind of short, I know. I'm really looking forward to the next few, so stay in tune! I'll try to make them longer!


	16. Peace

Goddamn am I bad at procrastinating...well Finals went great, if that's an excuse haha. Here's the next chapter! Finally!

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><p>Sansa slept fitfully beside her brother. She knew that Jaime had been right on several accounts; the North had been brutally savaged by the power struggle, and she wasn't sure that the denizens behind the cold walls would be so willing to accept her. Women had always had more difficulty holding seats of power than men, and Sansa wondered if she was strong enough to hold the North alone.<p>

"Sleep, please," whispered Jon beside her. His hand curled around her waist to hold hers, his chest against her back. She sighed, feeling a little easier, but not by much. His heat at her back, the hand curled around hers, his breath in her hair...it all reminded her painfully of when she was foolishly in love with her husband. She drew away from him guiltily.

"I'm sorry, Jon," she murmured, turning to face him in her blankets. "I just find myself lost in thought these last few days." Her brother smiled toothily; gods, he had grown handsome. Sansa couldn't help but smile back.

"Not quite used to the freedom yet?" he asked lightly, tucking his arm beneath his dark head. "Don't worry. I'll help you through everything until we reach Winterfell; then I've got to get back to where I belong." Sansa hummed disgruntled agreement, trying to appreciate the short time she'd have with the last of her family before he'd leave her again, alone, to run her home. Her brow furrowed suddenly, and she frowned.

"Where's Ghost?" she asked, unbidden thoughts of Lady flooding through her mind. Jon looked serious for a moment before smiling again.

"I had to leave him at the Wall. He doesn't like it, but they need the help, and he's wonderful for sensing danger." Jon looked as though he'd said too much, but Sansa didn't want to ask him about the danger yet. She felt as though she was already burdened with the world. "He's fine, though. Getting absolutely enormous, but healthy. He still hasn't made a sound."

Sansa laughed, remembering the old days, when they had all been handed their direwolf puppies. Lady had been perfect for a young girl; she had patiently endured Sansa's constant dress-ups, the braiding, the bows, everything that could be thought up, without a single growl or bared tooth. She accepted Sansa's smothering nightly cuddles with incredible grace. But it had been a long time, and Sansa could barely remember what color she'd been anymore.

Thinking about the old days also made Sansa unbearably sad; she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, trying to sleep, or think of anything else. She tried to think of the future instead. If the castle had been torn down, she'd have to have it built back up. If they could use the same stone, it would save a lot of time...perhaps she could make it better than before. Though she couldn't recall Lady's fur, she could reconstruct Winterfell perfectly in her mind. It wouldn't be so difficult, then. She'd live in her father's room, redecorate the black and silver. She'd need dresses made eventually...she had to always look the lady.

Dreaming of her home, Sansa finally slept.

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><p>"I don't like those howls," muttered Horic to Jaime. Jaime laughed at his Second Guard, spooning another mouthful of honey porridge into his mouth. "You heard them, last night?"<p>

"Yes, but a few wolves would hardly be interested in some traveling soldiers," replied Jaime, shaking his head. "They're probably passing through." He couldn't believe his superstitious men; they had spent the night in uneasy watch, made skittish by the cries of a hungry dog.

"They sounded awful menacing to me," argued the guard resentfully. He bit deep into a blood orange, the bright juice staining Horic's short brown beard. "And close, too. I've never heard howls so loud."

"Well, you know what they say about wolves," said a light, fresh voice behind them. "They always know when the leader of their pack comes home." Jaime turned and smiled at his solemn young wife, unusually humorous that morning. She shot Jaime a smug look before reaching around him to take an orange from the bags.

"Yes, and I'm sure they'll be wild with joy as they tear you apart, lovely wife," he shot back, particularly enjoying the flash of annoyance across her fine features. "I've had many an ancestor torn apart by lions to prove points. I have no doubt you'll be treated to the same welcome if we don't keep moving." He reached to touch her chin with a finger before she jerked away and left. Sighing, he stared after her as she marched irritably away. Maybe she'd forgive him one day.

"Did...did you mean it? About the wolves?" whispered Horic in a hushed voice. Jaime dropped his spoon into his empty bowl, handing it to his squire before turning to smile laughingly at his guard.

"If they catch up to us? It's lean times, my friend, and if I was a hungry wolf I wouldn't think twice about tearing us to bloody chunks." With that, he left Horic horrified and began to saddle his horse.

Jon and Sansa didn't take long to prepare their things. They had many days of riding ahead of them, and Jaime honestly didn't like the thought of the dangerous road ahead. The sooner they began, the sooner it would be behind them. He and Jon took the lead, with Sansa and his First Guard Janes behind them. Horic scouted several miles ahead, and their train was a motley of guards and squires with fully packed horses. Jaime longed for the days when he'd leave for weeks alone, just he and his horse, hunting for food and filling up at streams. At this rate, it would take much longer.

"I want you to know that I hold absolutely no grudge against you," called Jaime to Jon over the pounding of their horses' hooves. Jon shot him a dirty look and ignored him, but Jaime Lannister wasn't a person one could easily ignore. He rode closer to his wife's brother, to press the point. "In fact, I hold a lot of respect for you. I can't imagine living with Sansa when she was young, it must have been impossible."

He could have sworn that a smirk crossed the serious Stark's cold face, but he might have been mistaken. It could have been unadulterated rage.

"I can imagine you're feeling pretty satisfied," replied Jon slowly, thoughtfully. His voice was almost so low that Jaime couldn't hear it. "Saved my sister, escaped death, riding off into another lordship...but hear me, Jaime Lannister. I don't care if Sansa despises you or can't live without you; I'll see your blood on my sword yet. Until we get to the castle, you're here because your guards follow you. After that, well, I'd imagine you're at the mercy of our lady."

Jaime, thinking back on the last few months with Sansa, cringed a little bit. He swallowed his regrets carefully and managed a very Jaime-like laugh again. It came out a little weak, but his voice strengthened with his words.

"Then I suppose I had better either behave myself," he joked, sneaking a side glance at Jon. "Or get much, much naughtier."

To the bone, Jon Snow was not his sister. Jaime hadn't been expecting the sudden blow, he hadn't noticed how close his horse had taken him, nor the reach on that young lad. The sheer force of it was almost enough to knock Jaime off of his horse again; indeed, the young lordling was practically climbing off of his own steed to take another swing.

"Stop! Jon, _stop_!" barked Sansa from behind them crossly, though without much enthusiasm. She hadn't heard anything of their conversation from behind them, but she knew Jaime well enough to get the gist of it. "We need him alive!"

"My gratitude is yours, merciful wife," spat Jaime, working his jaw and wincing. "Though I cannot understand it. Why on earth do you need me alive? Isn't your dashing young brother here to whisk you to Winterfell?" When Sansa smiled, he wished he hadn't asked; there was something distinctly wolflike in her teeth. She rode her black mare easily between them, barricading her brother off. Jaime wasn't sure which he preferred least.

"Oh silly husband, I don't need you for the ride home," laughed Sansa lightly. Jaime remembered when she had been a sweet, naive girl and wished for better days. "But our son isn't going to be a bastard. And I'm no Lysa Arryn; I will not be wed again."

Jaime smiled grimly. So he was to be a captive lord, then. He'd read of several such in histories, of the puppet lord protectors who were controlled by their far more vicious and dominant wives, the true heirs of the lands, but he'd hardly had a mind to be one. He imagined that this bitterness must have been some fraction of what Sansa felt in King's Landing.

"Son, then?" murmured Jaime quietly, to bring his mind to other thoughts. He could easily set his guard against Jon and his lady wife, but to what ends? Where did he have to flee? He had neatly burned all of the bridges behind him, throwing quite a bit of trust into the fantastic birthright of his wife, but her favor was as sprightly and teasing as a fawn. He had lost it so easily in the heat of passion, of rage and jealousy and spite. She honestly shouldn't have expected more of him. Her smile was not for him as she touched her slowly filling belly.

"I just know it," she murmured quietly, with no tenderness in her voice left for him. But she loved their kitten; that much he could put his faith into. That much he could bank on. "He's the next lord of Winterfell, its true protector."

"And I'll wager as gallant and dashing as his dear old uncle," grumbled Jaime bitterly beneath his breath. His lip curled arrogantly, and he turned his gaze skyward. A cold droplet struck his face as he took in the rolling black clouds. "As charming as this ride is, we need to find cover soon. It's going to be a terrible night." He heard both Starks sigh.

"I know there's an old inn a few miles ahead," called Jon from behind Sansa. "We'll stop there for the night."

* * *

><p>Their reception was as warm and welcoming as their namesakes; the innkeep indeed looked as though a pack of lions had walked into his little shelter. They were granted solitude by the handful of patrons, all of whom moved to the very borders of the room with nervous whispers. Jaime didn't like the looks of that, and from the glance Jon exchanged, neither did he.<p>

"I don't think we'll get much trouble from these folks," confided Jon quietly to Jaime, who knew the right time to keep his mouth. "Though I can't imagine why we're getting such treatment. We proved Sansa innocent!" Jaime laughed, a dark, hollow sound.

"Yes, but little faith is put into the scoundrels who defy the Queens. If we've lost the favor of King's Landing, we're on shaky ground. There isn't a peasant alive who isn't keen to the violent moods of the Cersei." But Jon was right, too. They would get no trouble here, despite the suspicious murmurs.

They were served decent enough food, anyways. Thick crusts of bread filled to dripping with hot beef stew, sweet potatoes cut and peeling in the cold air, and an endless filling of the mugs with good, dark beer. Clearly the innkeep, despite his premonitions, did not want to anger the small troop of armed soldiers, no matter their affiliations. He ate heartily and with great pleasure. And he thought deeply on the fact that Jon, despite his grudge, seemed to hold Jaime's opinions and experience such high esteem. That would likely come in handy later...

"The men who have coin for rooms will be staying here, with us," said Jaime, standing eventually. Jon and Sansa both looked up. "The others will be outside with the equipment. I will go and reserve our quarters, one single and a double, I assume. I'll leave it to the lady to decide who goes where." He gave Sansa a cheeky wink before turning, enjoying the blush that flared in her cold, fair face.

He left quickly, rather than face the uncontrolled temper of her brother. My, the pair was an absolute dream to travel with...no senses of humor in that cold Stark landscape. He thought bitterly of the years he had ahead of him, even _if_ they managed to restore Winterfell and the North. A lifetime in a dead wasteland with humorless people? Cersei really shouldn't be angry with him, for Jaime had effectively sealed his own hell.

_This is your fault, you ugly, freckle-faced wench_, he thought grimly, pressing an extra gold coin into the innkeep's hand for confidentiality. _And yours, Catelyn Stark. I could be warm and happy in King's Landing, or Casterly Rock, lying in the arms of the loveliest woman in the world. I could be on the field, strewing blood like the reaper, and yet here I am, running off to the land of the bloodless. Well played, ladies._

And it looked like it was going to be yet another cold night for Jaime Lannister. He couldn't even keep his audacious mouth closed long enough to win back the affections of his young wife; indeed, it looked as though the next dozen years would be the coldest of his life. He sighed, not bothering to cast a glance back before nodding to his squire and stalking up the stairs towards his room. With rather un-Jaimelike dispirit, he quietly entered the single bed room.

* * *

><p>Gods, Sansa burned. She had burned deeply since that morning, the dark, deep, unending internal churning too much for her to handle. She was restless, impatient, and frustrated. She could hardly abide Jon's presence.<p>

She crushed the thought again and again, sullenly embracing the unease with bitter discomfort. But it was difficult to deny, especially when he winked at her like that, the smooth gait of his walk, the quiet broadness of his shoulders, the promises of heated delight in his long, strong limbs. Memories leapt unbidden to her mind, breaking momentarily through her mental barriers before being quashed, but their marks remained. His strong grip on her, his hand in her hair, the tickle of quick and breathless kisses across her collarbone...

She stood abruptly, startling her brother and Jaime's first guard.

"I'm going to our room," she informed them firmly. They looked at each other, and she wondered who she was really trying to convince. "I'm going to go to sleep. Be quiet on your way in, Jon." She turned and marched herself up the stairs, leaving the men baffled. Once at the top of the stairs, she stood at the doors, marked for their arrival. She stood there for a long time.

One door was marked with a black card, the double room that she knew it to be hers. The one beside it was marked with a rose card, the single bed. She knew for sure which room Jaime was in; despite his flirtations and suggestive comments, he held fast to his personal brand of honor. Besides, there was little he'd risk with so much at stake for him. She had seen that in his eyes, a nervous gleam that was at constant odds with his endless bantering.

And despite everything that he had done to her, the flashes of the monster she'd seen he could be...she pitied him, too. Sansa had once been able to hate for a long time; she remembered hating Arya for months, _years_, when she'd been young and foolish. She was tired of bitter brew of anger. It made her sad and tired inside. Her hand trembled on the rose carded door.

But where was her dignity? Where was her cold Stark wall that had protected her for so long? She drew her fingers back, feeling waves of guilt and self-loathing crash over her. Her mouth twisted and she struggled deeply with herself. Was she some wanton maid, coming to him out of desire?

Sansa sank to the floor, leaning against the wall, her head in her hands. Her rich auburn curls pushed through her fingers as she pulled at her own hair in angry indecision. She was his _wife_! This was her _right_! But when she thought of Jon, of his fury at mounting the stairs and finding her to be in Jaime's room, her decision was sharp and final. She grieved quietly at the thought of another night alone with her thoughts, tormented by the endless tirade of guilt that had followed her since the day she'd betrayed her father. She could not betray her family again...but then why did she feel so terrible?

Slowly she picked herself up off of the floor, slowly she turned the knob to the black-marked room. She didn't let herself look back when she closed the door.

* * *

><p>Jon sat on the grubby wooden stairs, just out of the sight of his sister. He had been filled with suspicion when she left early, and though he had no right to order her around, he couldn't quash his own curiosity. And, despite his respect for Sansa, he couldn't help but be filled with rage when he saw her hand touch the door they both knew Jaime Lannister to be behind. He had trembled with the urge to run up there and slap her, shake her, remind her of why he had come all the way from the Wall, against his own orders.<p>

It had taken everything in him to remain quiet and hidden on the stairs. His hands had dug into the wooden slats of the steps, but he remained crouched with predatory grace and anticipation. Something inside of him calmed when her brow furrowed, and she removed the hand. He watched her as she backed away, finally sinking to the floor across from both doors. The rage quieted, turned into tame sorrow to match the tortured expression on her delicate features.

He felt a rush of both pride and pity as she stood and walked quickly into their room. Pride because he had caught a glimpse of the inner fortitude she had finally developed, and pity because he knew that she used it as a weapon against her own happiness. He had seen the constant guilt in her eyes over the days they'd been together, and it was difficult to bear as a brother and a friend.

He rose silently once she closed the door, stalking towards their rooms. He, too, paused at the doors, looking carefully at each. Whatever Lannister had done, he had clearly won Sansa's affection long before Jon had arrived, and destroyed it then too. Jon bit his lips in irritation. He stared at the rose door for a full minute before turning and walking into his room.

Sansa was lying down, lightly if not modestly dressed. Her thick hair was loose about her, and though her side moved evenly he knew she was not asleep. Jon walked over and sat down at the edge of the bed. She glanced up, her eyes carefully guarded. Jon felt another rush of pain. When did she learn to look at men like that? He remembered when her blue eyes had been wide, happy, and trusting. It felt so long ago.

"You love him," he said quietly. He could feel her walls rising, but her withdrawal only made him sure of his words. His mouth was a grim line of acceptance. "Don't you, Sansa." It wasn't a question. His lovely sister, her face only more beautiful with wan serenity, flinched as though he'd raised a hand to her. For a long time she said nothing, and he was worried that she would deny him. Her horrendous pain was a burden for them both, and he couldn't long watch her struggle beneath it. Finally, after an eternity, her lips parted. Her eyes lowered in humility.

"Is it wrong?" she whispered, her voice hushed and ragged. Shame and mortification seeped through every word, and Jon closed his eyes.

"The things you told me," he said slowly, trying not to frighten her away now that she'd finally let him in. "Were they true? The striking, and raping..." his voice trailed off, and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to know. He tried very hard not to let her see how deeply this affected him, too. Sansa's hand covered his.

"It...it _was_," she admitted, her brow furrowed but her eyes clear and dry. "In the beginning. He did strike me, though not often, and...no, sometimes I didn't want to lie with him, but Jon he _changed. _I can't recall when or how, but he didn't hit me ever again, and he became so gentle, just like a knight from the stories, and he can be so kind, Jon!"

In that instant he watched his pale and serious sister reveal a hidden scale, a shard of what she had once been. He saw the hopes and dreams of his flouncing baby sister emerge once more, for the first time since he'd spoken to her again. He could hear how reverently she adored Jaime, despite his or her qualms. It pained him, but at the same time he felt a deep joy in her ability to cling to her songs for so very long in the claws of the Lannisters. It somehow made her braver.

"And about Joffrey, and Cersei," said Jon quietly, not quite willing to watch his sister grow old again. Sansa dimmed, frowning with disgust. This was an issue that neither of them could sidestep, the point where Sansa would either have to turn back or take a running leap over it. When she looked up again, he saw the barest glimmer of hope still in her vivid blue eyes. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and sure.

"He came back for me," she said softly, "and not Cersei." Jon abruptly understood. He and Sansa both knew that Jon would lay his life on the line for his sisters; any force that would make him turn his back on her would have to be colossally powerful. The fact that Jaime turned on his own sister, and _lover_, made Sansa immediately hold his decision near and dear. Jon sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs.

"Then you know what you feel for him," said Jon quietly. "You should go." Sansa froze, worry and guilt written across her brow again. She looked down, her long hair hiding her face.

"But...what would father say...I've betrayed our family so many times," she murmured, almost too soft for him to hear. Jon instantly turned and pulled her to him, wishing he could defend her from the world of pain she had lived in for so long. His arms tightened around her slight frame.

"You did a foolish thing out of love," growled Jon to her, "you've done many foolish things out of love. But you can't let that torture you, Sansa. In a world so full of hate and anger, hold onto that particular talent."

Sansa was quiet for a few moments before drawing back and smiling shyly at him. Jon smiled back, brushing the hair from her face. He marveled at how clear her eyes were.

"Do I look alright?" she asked him self-consciously, and Jon felt deep satisfaction at how easily she let down her barriers now. He laughed and pinched her cheeks rosy again.

"You look marvelous," he said seriously, leaning forward to kiss her forehead tenderly. "And if that prick ever makes you cry again, come and let me know. I'll bring Ghost next time." Sansa would have laughed if her brother didn't look so damned serious. She squeezed his hand reassuringly before sliding off of the bed and to the door.

Jon leaned back and sighed, the giant bed all to himself. He thought idly of Ygritte, wondering what could have happened, how their lives might have been if they had taken different turns. His mind turned over vivid images of her tangled fire red hair.

* * *

><p>Sansa stood outside of the door, suddenly doubtful. She and Jaime still had a lot of bad blood between them; she couldn't be sure of a welcome to his room, despite his comments. As he'd demonstrated before, the Lion of Lannister had an incredible volatile temper, and Sansa definitely did not want to fight tonight. She would also be embarrassed to return to Jon, after all they had discussed.<p>

So she stood for a few minutes wringing her fingers mercilessly. Finally she knew that there was only one way to find out if she and Jaime could get through this. She raised a trembling hand and knocked hard, the force of it disguising her inner anxiety.

"Come in," called a muffled, sleepy voice from inside. Sansa flushed hotly as she recognized the rough drag of his bedroom voice. Clearly he had been asleep. Nonetheless, she gently pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He was sitting up in his bed, the covers pushed back and his hair tousled in lovely curls. He blinked a few times before his mouth dropped open a little in shock. He cleared his throat and ran a hand hastily through his hair. They were both, for a moment, lost for words.

"Sansa!" he finally gasped a little, obviously caught without his court mask. She watched his face as he tried to recover, failed, and relaxed in slight defeat. "What...why are you here?" She tried not to frown, tried not to clench her fists in her skirts. His handsome features were oh so hard to resist, but she must, at least until they were settled.

She moved towards him hesitantly, and he drew back to make room for her, despite the single bed. She sat carefully on the edge, aware that she wasn't as well-dressed as she would have liked to be. She wore a simple tunic, well-cut but ending above her knees. It was definitely not appropriate attire for an evening visit. Although, with her husband...

"Jaime, I-" she began, but abruptly he moved towards her. She could hardly resist as he pulled her to him with his good hand, easily fitting her against his form. On the narrow bed, she was breathlessly pressed flush to his front, her head arched back to see his face, her heart beating fast against his chest. He didn't kiss her, but merely stared down at her, his green eyes glowing with catlike satisfaction. "Don't please, we need to talk." She tried to draw back, but failed. Even with one hand he was so much stronger than her.

"I can't apologize for the things I've done," he said in a low voice, his rumbling bass much too close to her ear. "Like it or not, your husband is impulsive, hotheaded, greedy, foolish, spiteful, and sometimes even cruel. I won't say that what I've done is always the right thing, but I will make you a vow, and those remain of utmost importance to me at all times." Sansa fell silent, and she lay timidly in his arms. She knew Jaime, and she knew that he would uphold everything spoken in a vow, even if it meant disgrace and death. He had already proven it to her. And so she waited, trying not to hold her breath. When he spoke, it was perhaps the most serious she had ever heard him, a rare occasion indeed.

"I promise to protect you forever," he whispered to her, the solemnity of the moment touching Sansa deeply. "I promise to use my hands to make you stronger in all ways. I promise to never wander. I will cut down all who stand against you. You are my wife; I will raise our child to a throne and defend him until death."

Sansa teared quickly, wanting to tease him about how he'd only be able to use one hand, how he shouldn't anticipate a son, but she didn't dare break his stride. It would have been awful of her to tease him at that moment.

He smiled, emerald eyes clear, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead gently. She felt more intimate with him at that second than she had at any point in time during their long and struggling marriage. She closed her eyes and smiled as she felt his lips press against hers. Their kiss deepened slowly, sensually, as he tugged her beneath the waves of desire that lapped at her skin. His hand pushed her hair back, tickled against her neck.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. She couldn't help the wonder that fluttered back into her old and tired spirit as he pulled the sheets over them.

* * *

><p>Hehehe...I'll try to update again soon, it's been a busy busy semester. Hope this is enough to satisfy you for now, don't worry, I'll pick up this last scene in the next chapter ;)<p> 


	17. Homecoming

Soooo, uhhhh...hi guys...

LOOK, A NEW CHAPTER! :D okay so some of this isn't on target with the book, and some of it is, just LET IT GO. Shit's gotta change since the different shit happening is the POINT of this fic...

* * *

><p>Something was different. He'd seen her at her weakest, and she'd seen him at his. She knew everything now. And it was obvious in the set of her husband's mouth, in the vulnerable gleam of his eyes, his worried brow. She knew everything, and still she had come back to him.<p>

They hadn't lain together since before he left for battle, before the wedding that seemed ages ago. Everything was different now. Her fingers trembled as they touched his bare chest, her skin heating in an unfamiliar way. He didn't move, didn't quiver, but trained his eyes on her. There was something entirely unreadable in them as she ran her fingers gently down the soft tawny skin. She was so warm, her breath so slow.

Sansa knew what pleasure felt like. She'd had it forced upon her, she'd been pushed over shaking, painful orgasms, been brought to peak when she hardly knew what that meant. Oh, she'd agreed to the sex. She knew what her duty was. But Jaime was merciless. There had been no slow and easy introduction to pleasure, he merely shoved her beneath the waterfall.

He lay still, though, and let her touch him. Her hand spread over his chest, playing with the light golden hairs there, smoothing over his wide shoulder. She felt so agitated, so _aware_. A warm blush spread over her, and she pulled her hand back.

Jaime caught it in his left, his eyes remarkably gentle.

"It's okay," he whispered, letting go of her hand and moving it to her waist. He wrapped his arm around her hips and turned, pulling her on top of him. She flushed harder, but he merely stroked her exposed thigh. "Do whatever you want to." His hand stayed on her leg, the thumb playing with the hem of her nightgown.

Sansa let her hands wander. They touched his cheek, brushing the backs of her fingers over his high, aristocratic cheekbones. His catlike eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, reflecting light from the moon. She stroked his neck, his collarbone, his chest and abdomen. The hard muscle was wrapped in silky skin, and she loved the feel of it. When she ran her fingers over his lower abdomen, it flexed gently, along with something else.

Heat suddenly flooded her entire body. She gasped slightly, her thighs squeezing on either side of him. The sensation made him clench his eyes shut beneath her, breath hissing through his teeth. A harder flex; she ducked her head, her auburn curls hiding her face as her fingers curled over his stomach. Embarrassed, so embarrassed...they'd had sex before, but not like this. She had never been allowed to explore him like this. And now, with the reins in _her_ hands, she felt self-conscious and unsure.

A hand brushed the hair back from her hidden face, tilted her chin up. Even her ears felt hot, but a different kind than the rest of her body. Embarrassment, mingled with unendurable arousal. He was propped up on his right elbow, left hand cupping her face. His expression was enough to melt the humiliation away.

"Don't hide," he said quietly. "You're beautiful. Everything you do is beautiful."

His hand left her face, but stroked down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, her breast, her belly. It left a trail of fire wherever it touched, and finally Sansa couldn't take it anymore. Her hesitation, her shyness, it seemed to fade in the approach of something so much bigger and darker. Sansa was a lady, but Sansa's lady was a wolf.

Jaime always slept naked. Sansa's nails dug into Jaime's chest as she lifted herself, ready for him. If he wasn't excited before, the sharp pain of her nails brought a rush of blood to his manhood. His breath was fast now, his eyes fixed on her face as she felt excitement and dark desire fill her now. Her walls dropped away, and what Jaime saw was not what he expected.

She lowered herself onto his erection, her brow furrowing as a sigh escaped from her lips. Jaime almost lost it there, but he knew better than to dethrone his lovely wife. So long as he had the patience for it, he was in for a wild night.

She slowly pumped her hips up and down, wetting him until he was finally buried to the hilt. Jaime's fist clenched the sheets now, his neck arched back as he fought to control the urge to throw her down and ravage her.

Sansa rocked back and forth slowly, a satisfied, humming noise in the back of her throat. Her eyes were smoldering blue, her nails scratched down his chest. Jaime vehemently wished for his right hand back, if only to grab those luscious hips and hold her still while he hammered up into her. But she taunted him with her pace, with the agonizing slowness of it. He closed his eyes, relishing the sweet torture of patience.

"Oh, my sweet wolf," he sighed, running his hand up her thigh, grabbing the hem of her gown and lifting it over her head with one sweep. He tossed it to the floor, discarded it in favor of the nude goddess enjoying her perch. Sansa's red curls ran wild down her back.

"My lion," she teased, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. _Gods be good_. Jaime touched her face, turning her for a kiss. It was unhurried, luxurious. She was so soft, so sweet. Everything about her tasted so sweet. Jaime groaned into her mouth, his hips pushing up into her. The heady pleasure was too much. His back arched, to throw her, but her teeth abruptly sank into his lower lip. He snarled in pain, distracted. Her eyes darkened, and she sat back heavily.

His toes twitched, his fingers twitched, and there was no mistaking the warning in his eyes. Sansa laughed lightly, but she too needed more. Bracing herself on his abdomen, she rocked her hips again, her teeth bared at the sharp pleasure. Again, and faster. Coils of heat wove through her as she moved, tempting her forward. She felt herself begin to lose control, and loving every second of it.

A guttural moan pushed through her lips, and she arched her back as the sound reverberated through her. Her head tipped lazily back, exposing her creamy throat. Jaime took the invitation and shot upright, his arms wrapping around her back as he sank his teeth into her. She squealed in surprise, but it was too late; his hand hooked over her shoulder and he pulled her down with him, his knees bent at just the right angle to power his painfully hard dick into her. She cried out, and he felt more than saw the goosebumps skitter over her skin.

He felt her lose it then. Her fists gripped the blankets by his head, and her eyes shone with ferocity he'd never seen before as she, there was just no other way to put it, fucked the shit out of him. He'd thought that the new position would give him some advantage, but never had he been more wrong. The bed was in her reach; it offered her a backing to her motion, and she absolutely took advantage of it. He was breathless beneath her, and slowly realized that the gasping breath invading his ears was his own.

Watching her ride him to her pleasure, seeing the wolf in his wife emerge, was intoxicating. Crouched over him, she was like a predator, dominating him. As her hips, slamming down on his, got harder and wilder, he matched his pace to hers. Soft cries emitted from her pink lips, growing louder and louder until she was suddenly shaking hard, her back arched and her teeth sinking into his neck, muffling her screaming. Jaime lost it too, following her with one of the most explosive orgasms he'd ever experienced.

Breathing hard and twitching slightly, he rested his head back against the pillow. She relaxed completely against him, her fingers uncurling in the sheets. They lay still, but Jaime soon grew uncomfortable, still sheathed inside of her.

"Sansa," he murmured, nudging her. She didn't move, her breath slow. Jaime laughed a little, and nudged her harder. "_Sansa_!" No response. Sighing, he rolled them both over, depositing her gently beside him. There wasn't much room on the single bed for them both, but he wouldn't complain. Not when it meant having that delicious body pressed against him. Pulling the blankets over them both, he settled down feeling significantly better about this than before.

_Perhaps...we could raise the North together._

The thought passed briefly through his mind before he followed his young wife into sleep.

* * *

><p>Sansa woke to the sound of a drawer slamming.<p>

"Wha-" she looked up, bleary-eyed, as her husband quickly dressed. He glanced down at her, only to grab her arm and pull her forcefully from the bed. She yelped in indignation as he nearly deposited her on the floor, but her mouth closed as she saw the serious...and nervous...expression he wore. "What's going on?"

"They're following us," said Jaime grimly, lacing his boots. Sansa felt a cold chill run over her. They had only brought a small proportion of Lannister guards with them, and Cersei would know better than to send them more. Lannister guards would definitely choose Jaime, their commander, over his sister. But that means that she would either send Highgarden or King's Landing soldiers, neither of which would have any love for her husband, or her. And their forces would be significantly greater than this traveling army, just a guard really.

And if it was enough to make Jaime nervous, then it was definitely enough to worry Sansa. But she buried her worries and began to throw her clothes on, speaking aloud all the while.

"If we're being followed, then we _have to_ make it to Winterfell in time. We have to take it back over with speed and force, oust whoever is inside of it and claim it rightfully, so that the people will stand for Winterfell when the soldiers arrive. They're probably broken enough as it is, but when we get back...Jon and I..." Sansa's voice faded, and she noticed that Jaime had stopped moving. Looking up, she saw a curious grin edging at his lips.

"My, are you...are you _strategizing_?" his tone was incredulous, and Sansa took mild offense to that. Her hands found her hips, and she let out a sassy huff.

"My mother helped Rob to win battles," she growled. "There's nothing to say a woman can't-" Her sentence was cut off as her husband laughed and swept her off her feet. He swung her in a wide circle before kissing the tip of her nose.

"Yes I _realize_ that, pretty wife. I'm related to the most underhanded, conniving, combative woman I've ever known. I say that because you're _Sansa_. Not because you're female." His teasing was light, and it put them both into better moods already. "Besides that, it was a good idea. We don't have enough forces to turn around, but the walls of Winterfell are famously cold." His smile was contagious, and Sansa couldn't help but mimic it.

"Let's get behind them, then." He let her down, and she finished dressing. Seeing him in such a state of undress roused her primal interests again, but a throb of pain told her it was probably not a good idea. She pulled a light dress on, and turned her back to Jaime, clearing her throat pointedly. He didn't respond, but continued buttoning his coat.

"Jaime?" she asked rather sharply. He jumped, and turned to see her smooth, milk-pale back, bared through the laces of her dress. Moving to her, he brushed the rich red curls from her neck and kissed it lightly. She huffed a breath and tried to step away from him, but he caught her with his good hand. "The laces, Jaime! Can you lace me up?"

"Wha-" he glanced down and in an instant, was resolved to do exactly _not_ that. "There's a million of them! We don't have time for that, don't you have a simpler dress?" Sansa turned her head slightly,her gaze burning. No arguing with that look. "_Fine_. But don't get mad at me when they're botched up."

With some blind guidance from his sharp-tongued wife, Jaime managed to get it tight enough to cover her back, and it didn't look so bad. His eye twitched a little when she threw a foxfur shawl over her shoulders, covering his hard work, but he knew better than to pick this fight. Sansa's clothes were her own business. She could wear whatever she damn well pleased. Besides, they had much more to worry about.

Jaime's scout was on them the instant they left the inn. A young, thin boy, he rode one of the fastest horses in the group, a nervous chestnut. He was fairly trembling when he ran up to the pair and bowed.

"My lord and lady," he said respectfully, "we are a smaller group than they. We will beat them to Winterfell, but we must leave immediately. They are less than a day behind us." Sansa shot an alarmed look at Jaime. She hadn't expected that Cersei would take action so soon after they left. She must have appealed to the court _immediately_, or her father, for them to rouse a force that large to follow them. But Sansa did steal her lover, and a woman's fury had few limits.

"Then let's get mounted up," said a voice to Sansa's left. Jon was just finishing his breakfast, cold porridge and hard bread with honey. He stood, brushing the dust from his cloak, and stalked over to them. Sansa felt her heart stutter with...fear? Nerves? Guilt? She didn't know what it was exactly, but she didn't like it at all. Her hand rose, pleading silently with her brother. Jon shook his head slightly, and approached Jaime.

They were nearly of the same height, but that was the only thing shared between them. Jaime held the vivid glory of the sun, to the quiet handsomeness of Jon. Jon's black cloak looked almost shabby against Jaime's white and gold chain mail. Jaime's hair fell in curls now, and Jon's dark hair fell in straight sweeps. Sansa watched, agitated, as they sized each other up. Jaime looked serious for once; it probably wasn't a good sign.

"Listen to me now, Kingslayer," said Jon quietly. Jaime, for once, didn't make any quips. His eyebrow raised slightly, but no more. "I don't like you. We both know that. I don't like your family, and I don't like your attitude. But..." Jon paused, and turned to look painfully at Sansa. She flinched guiltily. "My sister loves you. She clearly sees something that I don't. We need you, and you need us, so...so welcome to the family, I guess." Jon stepped back after that, backing down. Jaime's eyebrows rose in surprise now, and his mouth opened slightly. He shot a glance at Sansa, who was equally stunned.

"Um...Jon?"

"Well, we don't have a father anymore, and someone's got to bless your marriage," said Jon in a rush, shrugging slightly. "And..and I'm the oldest son now, so I mean..."

Sansa threw herself at her brother, tears prickling at her eyes. For everything that she'd put her family through, for the suffering she'd put Jon through, she knew that she didn't deserve a brother like him. Now, he was sacrificing his own pride to welcome her marriage.

"Sansa, come on," grunted Jon, hiding a smile. "We're being chased, we've got to leave." She untangled her arms around his neck, smiling through tears. She knew she didn't need words. Of course Jon understood her gratitude. He sobered slightly, when Jaime Lannister approached him.

"Your father was a good man," said Jaime quietly. "Thank you." He held out a hand, his left one, and Jon hesitated slightly, then shook it. Sansa turned and mounted her black mare, shaking her head. This might be peace now, but those boys might never stop fighting.

"To Winterfell," she murmured. And she prayed she would never leave it again.

* * *

><p>"The Queen of the North is coming!"<p>

"She's not a queen, it's Stark's oldest daughter."

"I thought she was dead."

"I thought she married a dwarf."

"No, it was the other brother, don't you remember? The handsome one."

"Well, she _should_ be the queen. Better her than any of the other whores at King's Landing."

"I don't think she's coming at all. Nobody is coming for us."

* * *

><p>Sansa was tired of riding. The cold wind tore into her skin as she rode, much harsher than she had remembered. They were definitely closer now; she'd had to wear her grey cloak when she rode now. The Lannister guards were shaking on their horses, fingers tight on leather and buried in manes. They ducked their heads against the merciless wind.<p>

Where there was once talk, there was silence now. Not even Jaime and Jon had the energy to spare bantering. Sometimes, if it was too cold, she'd ride double with one of her boys, to share body heat. She'd fallen asleep at Jaime's back once though, and nearly slipped off the horse; from then on, she'd tried to stay on her own black.

They had to gallop when possible, but the fast pace was paying off. Information traveled by hawk, and Jaime's spies within the enemy ranks sent message nightly. Sansa was sure that Cersei had spies within Jaime's troops too, but there was nothing they could do about the pace. Anybody dragging down the speed of the whole was left behind, Jaime didn't care. If they could take Winterfell swiftly, then they would have all the manpower they needed. And somehow, Sansa knew that they waited for her.

Every day was a worse day of travel than the last, but it put hope into Sansa's heart. During the day, they rode hard; the wind was cruel, and flakes of snow soon accompanied the hostile chill. Sansa had never been so glad to see snow in her life, and she cried with brokenhearted joy the first day she'd seen it. The men had looked away respectfully as she fell from her horse to the ground, stumbling, and raised her hands to the wonderful snowflakes.

At night, she shared tent with Jaime. Protected from the wind and wrapped in skins, they kept each other warm. Sansa looked forward to those nights now, to gently exploring her husband. Some nights they would lie together in the dark, whispering to each other. It seemed that Jaime had dropped his walls, too. Though he _did_ tease her still. But she didn't mind it so much anymore.

Jaime noticed a change in Sansa, too. As they neared her home, it was as though she was shedding her protective barriers. Oh, not the barriers of a Stark; she shed the barriers that she created herself, the cold and frightened girl that he had been forced to wed. Beneath that lay the true Sansa Stark, the woman who had grown inside of her protective skin while she cowered in the dark corners of King's Landing. Every day she grew bolder, her eyes harder. Some days, he could swear that Eddard Stark stared back at him through her blue eyes. Though they had their mother's color, they were her father's shape, the deadly eyes of a wolf.

But the eeriest thing was what happened when they approached the border of the icy kingdom.

It happened on the first night, hardly noticeable. Wolves had been near for almost the entire trip, their tracks not uncommon and their howls sometimes echoing through distant lands. They had gotten louder as the party approached, but it was to be expected; Winterfell housed most of the wolf population in Westeros.

But there was just no excuse for what happened when they crossed the border.

To Jaime's, and everyone's, utter astonishment, wolves began to run with them. It was hard to tell, due to the thickness of the forest beside the road, but lean shapes could be seen moving alongside the travelers. Most obviously, they would often belt howls as they ran, which spooked the horses for the first few days, though they got accustomed to it eventually. The travelers, though, were more spooked.

"It's _unnatural_," whispered the men. Sansa and Jon did not seem to know what to make of it either. They rode with the direwolf banner alongside the lion, but these were beasts. There was no decent explanation for their behavior, until...

"Nymeria!" they agreed solemnly. Talk flew among the men of one great wolf that led the pack, the biggest wolf that they had ever seen, half the size of a horse. Jon and Sansa hadn't seen such a wolf, but the description put both of them at ease suddenly, and they shared secret smiles when the wolves cried.

"Nymeria?" Jaime had asked. Sansa finished the story for him, of when her direwolf was put to death at King's Landing, and Sansa had released her own wolf, so that she might be spared.

"She would have come back to Winterfell eventually," said Sansa confidently, a little smile playing around her mouth. "I know it."

Jaime wasn't so sure about that, but it was a better theory than assuming the wolves had gained sentience.

Regardless, the pack grew in size the closer they got to Winterfell. As it grew in size, it also grew in noise. Jaime was annoyed that they had no chance whatsoever at a surprise assault of the castle, what with the singing wolves around them all day and night. Some of the men thought they'd go mad, but it was almost a comforting sound to him, like a battle hymn. They paced in circles around the nightly camps, and ran beside the horses during the day. Eventually they abandoned nightly watches; the wolves had better ears, and were vocal when it came to intruders. A thief had stumbled upon their camp, and Jaime had found his remains the next day.

But as the pack grew in size and noise, something else happened too. The villagers living on the outskirts of the territory were informed of their approach, and they emerged from their huts and farms to see Sansa Lannister and Jon Stark in full Stark regalia, as they had begun to dress. They rode swiftly and solemnly, in cloaks of grey and white, obvious among the gold and red of Lannister. Wolves bellowed of the approach, and Jaime felt a keen thrill of the land's acceptance of the true rulers. He'd never experienced a welcome like this.

As the farms grew thicker, their approach was thunderous. The pack seemed unfazed by crowds, because they continued their run straight through the villages with the growing battalion of soldiers. And it was growing; as word spread of the approach of the Lady Sansa, and as the screams of the wolves penetrated every corner of the North, the citizens took up arms and mounted their farmhorses, or took foot to the castle.

Their approach was swift and furious. Farmers, blacksmiths, merchants, all took up arms as they crossed through villages, all joined the assault party. One morning, while riding, Jaime caught sight of a massive wolf; she dwarfed all of the rest, her shoulders easily reaching his horse's belly. His heart flew into his mouth as she turned her head to stare at him with a yellow eye, baring enormous teeth. A chill ran through his body, at the _awareness_ in this beast's eye. But she ducked away, and disappeared from sight. Jaime remembered those wolf pups, the eerie way they'd look at you.

Though this beast did not seem friendly, Jaime felt almost at ease.

And when they finally reached Winterfell, it was with a horde of snarling wolves and armed civilians behind them.

"The flayed man," whispered Sansa in horror. She recognized the banner of House Bolton immediately, and to be honest she could not be terribly surprised. House Bolton had historically been their enemies; why not now, when House Stark was at its weakest? She looked up at Jaime, and then Jon, and felt stronger. _We are not children anymore_.

They were waiting for them. The flayed men stood atop the great, never breached walls, arrows drawn. Ramsay Bolton stood at the forefront, looking unsure of whether he should duck or call an attack. Sansa suddenly felt a rush of disdain, that this man had violated their beloved castle of Winterfell. But Ramsay looked significantly less confident when he realized how many northmen had taken up arms with their Lady.

"You have no rights to this castle," he called in a high, reedy voice. It trembled slightly, and Sansa scoffed. "I'm the rightful Warden of the North! I wedded Arya Stark, you have no right!"

Sansa felt her breath leave her body; she remembered meeting Ramsay once, when she was very young, and it was not an event that she thought kindly of. The very idea of Arya being wedded to Ramsay Bolton was...well, horrifying. But Jaime's steady hand, touching hers, calmed her.

"Let's see her, then," called Jaime. Sansa frowned and looked at her husband, but Ramsay remained silent. Everything was silent. Even the wolves stood like statues around them. Jaime laughed softly, and then he began to scream. "I am Jaime Lannister, firstborn son of Tyrell and brother to the Queen. Sansa Stark, the eldest Stark living, is the next in line for that castle you hide behind, you red worm. Even if you were married to Arya Stark, our claim uproots yours. And you are **not**!"Sansa jumped at the word roared from her husband's mouth. Jaime turned to face the Northmen, to face their stunned gasps and outraged cries.

"That's right. I saw this 'Arya Stark' at King's Landing, and it's an imposter! You have been played for fools!" screamed Jaime, now at the Northmen. They screamed their rage back at him, raising swords and axes and scythes, and just about anything they could get hands on. Some of the former soldiers held swords and spears, alongside Jaime's own forces.

"And _this man_!" Jaime's sword swung to point at Ramsay, who looked considerably shaken at this point, "This _child_ has been slaughtering your soldiers, torturing them like a Bolton, behind his walls!" The battle cries of the men were joined by wolf howls, and Ramsay was all but hiding behind a pillar. "But the cavalry is here, and _the time of judgment is at hand_." Jaime's voice lowered to a threatening snarl, but all heard him. Sansa was breathless; Jaime was a warrior at heart, and never before had she seen him this way.

"Shoot at them!" cried Ramsay, not sounding so sure anymore. His archers, Bolton through and through, drew their arrows. But, suddenly, the enormous gate began to open.

"Jeyne!" cried Sansa brokenly, recognizing her friend. Jeyne was sporting a magnificent black eye, and her arm was bandaged, but otherwise she appeared to be in decent condition. Two men that she did not recognize were with her; farmhands, they looked like, but cloaked in the Bolton House colors. Clearly they were not allied with them, because they held bloodied swords and the gatesmen lay dead.

"Charge!" cried Jaime, and the thundering hooves was hint enough to Jeyne to throw herself to the side.

Everything was chaos inside. But Ramsay had never stood a chance. Wolves ran inside the castle walls with the soldiers, and they went berserk on anybody inside. Villagers armed with farming tools and a purpose unleashed fury on the invading house, and Jaime's soldiers made short work of Ramsay's men.

So much screaming, so much noise...Sansa dismounted, trying to figure out what was going on in the mayhem. She saw two soldiers chasing a serving girl through the courtyard she had loved as a child. She saw four wolves tearing a man to pieces. She coughed. Smoke? What was on fire? She tried to find Jaime, to find her brother, but Jon was swept up in the excitement too. Turning, Sansa saw Ramsay Bolton, his neck broken from when he fell off of the castle wall.

Jeyne was gone, and people were slaughtering each other. But for what? Sansa stared at Ramsay's body, the broken body that once housed the Bastard of Dreadfort. Their lord was dead. What were they fighting for? Roose had no other children to send here, the Bolton line was ended until Roose had another child.

Where was Roose? Sansa looked around carefully. There were remarkably few soldiers, when she had thought that the most of the Bolton host would be here. The soldiers that did fight were either too old or too young...either way, they weren't in good enough condition to fight back. The takeover was shockingly easy.

How did Jeyne manage to open the gate? Shouldn't there be more soldiers? She caught sight of Jaime, cutting down two more soldiers as he traveled, calling orders.

"Jaime!" she cried, and he came to her, his armor bloody. He looked concerned, and began to drag her towards a house, away from the road. "No, Jaime, where _is_ everybody?"

"Stannis," panted Jaime, glancing around. Soldiers ran through the roads fighting. Horses ran too, wild without their masters. "Stannis was here already. Roose chased him from the gate, then pursued Stannis's army with his own. This is just who he left behind." Sansa nodded, suddenly afraid. That meant that this wasn't over yet. But, Sansa _hoped_. She knew that Roose didn't have allies like her father did. The other Houses would not kneel to him. That meant that up to half of Bolton's forces could turn on him, and he would know it too.

Their odds certainly looked better. Sansa looked around. "Well, we'd better shut the gate and take up post, then." Jaime nodded, and began to rally his men around the courtyard. She watched him with a small smile.

What was left of Roose's defensive force was obliterated in under an hour. They were cowards, who fell when they saw their lord's son fall from the wall. They had lost when they trembled at the sight of the true heir to Winterfell, at the wolves around her and the Northmen cheering her on. Sansa sighed as she looked around, at the destroyed towers and burned halls. And the dungeons...with the Bolton reputation, she wasn't sure she had the stomach to find out who was suffering in the bowels of Winterfell.

"Captain Boyce, take the archers to the roof!" called Jaime authoritatively. "Captain Redwood, you will go with John Snow and set up formations at the gate, in case Roose breaks through. And let's not have anybody letting them in, shall we?" Jaime grinned, and Sansa saw with relief that behind him cowered Jeyne Poole, her relief at the rescue nearly outweighing her terror.

Jon didn't fight with Jaime now, didn't bother reminding him that he had more right to order the Northmen around. Both he and Sansa knew that Jaime's battle tactics were unparalleled, and he was a famous warrior long before he was the Warden of the North. Besides, it would do him good to fight alongside her men. Now was a good time to forge that trust.

But to her surprise, Jaime didn't go with them. He came back to her, brushed the curls from her face, and kissed her. Sansa melted into the kiss, allowing herself to relax into his arms. She was _home_.

"Roose won't be back for a while. He has at least a full day's worth of travel ahead of him, and he still has to rest his men and tend to his wounded. We have at least a few days, so we'll have our men camp at the walls." He ran his hand over her hair and pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling her tremble with emotion.

"I thought he had Arya," she whispered, allowing her fear to manifest in her mind, and releasing it. "Gods, Jaime, I thought he had Arya..."

"She'd be better off dead," said Jaime in a low voice. Sansa nodded into his shoulder, her arms tight around his waist.

"Sansa?"

Sansa turned, to see her childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. She rushed to her, caught her friend's shaking hands in her own. It was only here, up close, that Sansa could see how gaunt and pale Jeyne had become.

"The...the master bedroom is...not in a good state," whispered Jeyne. "You can take my room if you want. Ramsay l-let me stay there most of the time." Sansa smiled, pulling her friend close. Jeyne's body shook with weakness. Sansa felt that her own pain was nothing to her friend's, her time with the Lannisters was _nothing_...

"But where would you stay?" asked Sansa sadly. Jeyne laughed a little.

"There are rooms in the servant quarters. I'd really rather stay there." Sansa nodded understandingly. She knew that when she was in King's Landing under Joffrey's rule, there were many instances where she wished she could hide away in the servants' quarters. There was no point in depriving Jeyne of a little privacy now. "And...Sansa?"

Jeyne pulled away, her eyes suddenly deeper and darker than before. Her face lost what little color it had, and her thin hands tightened almost painfully over Sansa's. Frightened, Sansa tried to pull away and failed.

"You can't let them win," pleaded Jeyne quietly, tearfully. Sansa nodded, but Jeyne shook her head. "No. If they win, cut your throat, because by the time you die you'll wish you had listened to me." Sansa's mouth dropped, but Jeyne had already turned away, and began wandering over to the servants' quarters. Sansa stood in the cold, her cloak tight over her shoulders, protecting her from the fat snowflakes. By tomorrow, the bodies would be covered with a blanket of snow.

The towers were burned and collapsed, and the castle looked hardly fit to live in. Sansa held back tears, wishing dearly for things to be as they were. For the grass to be green and for the wolf puppies that played within the castle, not these beasts that tore men apart.

Was she truly home? Sansa turned to face the walls, where hundreds lay down their bedrolls for the night, lighting fires to keep warm. Could they hold against Roose? She knew now that Jaime had been counting on traitors. He had no plan for breaching the wall, he had no plan for defeating Roose Bolton's men. But he had counted on his own silver words, and the legitimacy of his wife, to get him through those walls.

Perhaps Jaime's silver tongue could get them through another battle.

"Sansa!" Jaime trotted over, discarding his red cloak. It was tattered and blood-soaked; he handed it to an approaching servant, one from his own troops. "Let's get some sleep, shall we?"

"Jaime!" she gasped, pointing to his arm. He glanced down to see it dripping dark red, and sighed. Someone's sword had cut just below the sleeve of chainmail, opening a deep flesh wound. Sansa grabbed his hand and led him into the nearest door, the door that she knew would take them to Jeyne's old room. She led him up the stairs, and finally stopped at the large stone bathroom. Opening a cabinet, she pulled out a roll of bandaging and a bowl. Filling the bowl with warm water from the hot springs, she dipped a cloth into it and turned back to her husband, who had seated himself at the edge of the tub, a lazy grin on his handsome face.

"It's just a scratch," he insisted, but she wiped it clean nonetheless. No need to let it get dirty and fester. Her hands shook hard, and finally she dropped the cloth back into the bowl, where the red blood seeped through the clean water. She huffed and dumped the bowl into the tub, unraveling the bandaging. "Darling, it's a scratch."

"_You can't die now_," she burst, louder than she had meant to. Jaime stopped talking abruptly, realizing how serious his little wife was. Her shoulders trembled, though there were no tears in her eyes; only fierce anger. "You can't bring me home, into this disaster, and then die on me. Okay?!" Her tone was harsh, and Jaime's hand was gentle on her face.

"I had no intention of dying," he said seriously. Sansa still trembled, the realization of their utter luck crashing over her again and again. What if Stannis hadn't gotten here first, and driven Bolton from the castle? What if Jeyne hadn't opened the gate? What if Ramsay hadn't waited to speak, but shot them full of arrows as they approached?

"_Sansa_." She looked up, angry and confused. He kissed her firmly on the mouth, then on each cheek. When he pulled away, that stupid trademark smile was back. "We'll make it. We have to."

She sighed, slipping her arms around him. She noticed that the wound was dripping again, and pushed him away so that she could wrap it. He rolled his eyes, but held his arm out obediently; she noticed it was the same one as the golden hand. And she could have sworn that she heard him muttering something about 'cutting the whole thing off.'

What kind of son could she raise in a world like this?

* * *

><p>"What are we going to do, Jaime?"<p>

Her words were quiet against his chest. They laid together in Jeyne's bed, but tonight held no sleep for either of them. Despite the intoxicating lovemaking, she couldn't distract herself with anything but the war. All Sansa wanted was to kick everybody out of Winterfell, and raise her unborn child in peace. Her child...her hand wandered over her belly. She would begin showing soon.

"Hold Winterfell. It's really that simple." He chuckled into her hair, but she could hear the anxiety beneath the smooth veneer of his voice. Jaime rode the waves of luck now. They both knew that Roose's forces were likely to turn on each other, once they discovered Sansa's presence. But Cersei's approaching force was something else altogether. Jaime must also be depending on enough of Roose's army allying with him, and surviving, to have any hope of making it through this alive.

"Do we have any allies?"

"Um...doesn't your aunt rule the Vale?"

"Oh gods, we're dead, aren't we..."

Jaime laughed, and ran his hand through her hair. Sansa had taken a hot bath before bed, and she smelled like wild pine and cherries. Delicious. He tipped her head back and kissed her tenderly.

"Well, we'll die at each other's hands before we die under Roose Bolton. And if Cersei breaches the North...I don't know how _you'll_ fare, but I think I'll make it out alright." Sansa glowered at him as he laughed at his own joke. A hard thump on his chest brought a cough from his lungs. "Alright, alright, too soon..." Sansa's eyes were beginning to drift shut though. It was very late, and she didn't know if she'd live to fall asleep in her husband's arms again.

"Jaime."

"Hm."

"Don't let Roose Bolton flay me."

"He'll have to peel his way through me, darling."

"...that's not funny."

* * *

><p>So I'm back! Sorry for the long delay : I kinda lost my mojo for this fic, and got a little bit into some other ones, but I've been trying to propel myself through this one again, and I think I'm back on the horse! Thanks for the endless support from everybody! You have no idea how much it means to me!

So, one of my theories (unofficial, I just theorize...) about the books is that WAIT FOR IT...Jon Snow is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen! Since Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna, and it's never clear what happened, but Ed just _returns_ with a son, and won't say who the mother is? Also, it would explain Jon's looks, since he looks more like Eddard than Catelyn's sons, but so does Arya (look more like her father), and Eddard also says that she reminds him of Lyanna? Anybody else think this?

And when Danaerys gets back to Westeros, she's TOTALLY going to marry Jon, because he'd then technically be her nephew and they're cool with incest...

Anyways, if that happens, I just want to be able to prove that I saw it coming :) probably a lot of people think this, but I'm super excited to find out about Jon's heritage!


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